Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature 9783110571288, 3110571285

Table of contents :
Intro
Foreword
Contents
List of Images
Introduction
Section I: Epic and Lyric Poetry
War as a spectacle
The Eyes of Odysseus. Gaze, Desire and Control in the Odyssey
Blindness and Blinding in the Homeric Odyssey
Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 4 and the epic gaze: There and back again
Gazing at heroes in Apolloniusâ#x80
#x99
Argonautica
Gazing at Helen with Stesichorus
Section II: Drama
Seeing the invisible: Interior Spaces and Uncanny Erinyes in Aeschylusâ#x80
#x99
Oresteia
Visual Intertextuality in Ancient Greek Drama: Euripidesâ#x80
#x99
Bacchae and the Use of the Art Media Â#x80
#x9C
You must not stand in one placeâ#x80
#x9D
: seeing in Sicilian and Old Attic ComedyVisual and non-visual uses of demonstratives with the deictic ι in Greek Comedy
Section III: Rhetoric, Historiography, and Philosophy
Reimagining Helen of Troy: Gorgias and Isocrates on Seeing and Being Seen
Metahistory and the visual in Herodotus and Thucydides
Dealing with the Invisible â#x80
#x93
War in Procopius
Being or Appearing Virtuous? The Challenges of Leadership in Xenophonâ#x80
#x99
s Cyropaedia
The Aesthetics of Vision in Platoâ#x80
#x99
s Phaedo and Timaeus
Section IV: Literary Texts meeting other Media A Picture of Ecphrasis: The Younger Philostratus and the Homeric Shield of AchillesUndressing For Artemis: Sensory Approaches to Clothes Dedications in Hellenistic Epigram and in the Cult Of Artemis Brauronia
Viewing and Identification: The Agency of the Viewer in Archaic and Early Classical Greek Visual Culture
List of Contributors
Subject Index
Author Index

Citation preview

Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Evangelos Karakasis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Jonas Grethlein · Philip R. Hardie Stephen J. Harrison · Richard Hunter Christina Kraus · Giuseppe Mastromarco Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis Giusto Picone · Tim Whitmarsh Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 54

Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature Edited by Alexandros Kampakoglou and Anna Novokhatko with the cooperation of E. Bakola, A. Lamari, F. Maier, C. Michel, C. Orth, and M. Tamiolaki

ISBN 978-3-11-056899-8 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-057128-8 e-ISBN (E-PUB) 978-3-11-056906-3 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2018 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Meta Systems Publishing & Printservices GmbH, Wustermark Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck; Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Foreword The present volume brings together papers that were originally presented at the conference “Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Greek literature: Concepts, Contexts, and Reception” held in Freiburg on December 4–6, 2014. Beyond these presented contributions, additional papers were added at a later stage, expanding the areas of Greek culture covered. We would like to thank the speakers at the Freiburg conference and the authors of the commissioned papers for honouring us with their contributions. We hope that this volume will not be read as a gathering of independent texts, but as a collective work created through mutual influence and dialogue. The Freiburg conference was organised by a group of scholars from Germany and Greece. Emmanuela Bakola (University of Warwick), Stelios Chronopoulos (Albert-Ludwigs-Universität, Freiburg), Alexandros Kampakoglou (Trinity College, Oxford), Anna Lamari (Aristotle University, Thessaloniki), Felix Maier (Albert-Ludwigs-Universität, Freiburg), Claudia Michel (Albert-LudwigsUniversität, Freiburg), Nikos Miltsios (Aristotle University, Thessaloniki), Anna Novokhatko (Albert-Ludwigs-Universität, Freiburg), Christian Orth (AlbertLudwigs-Universität, Freiburg), and Melina Tamiolaki (University of Crete) were the members of the original team that oversaw the organization of the conference and the preparation of this volume. We would like to thank the Academy of Athens and the Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, particularly Antonios Rengakos and Bernhard Zimmermann, for their encouragement and support. We would also like to thank DeGruyter and the editors of the series Trends in Classics, Supplementary Volumes, Antonios Rengakos and Franco Montanari, for accepting the present volume in their series. Florence Low and Aristi Tegou offered valuable assistance with copy-editing some of the chapters and the production of a number of images, respectively. The Freiburg conference was sponsored by the Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften. We would like to take this opportunity to thank this institution for covering the expenses of both the original event and the present volume. Oxford, July 2017 Freiburg, July 2017

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-202

Alexandros Kampakoglou Anna Novokhatko

Contents Foreword

v

List of Images Introduction

xi xv

Section I: Epic and Lyric Poetry Françoise Létoublon War as a spectacle

3

Jonas Grethlein The Eyes of Odysseus. Gaze, Desire and Control in the Odyssey Claudia Michel Blindness and Blinding in the Homeric Odyssey

33

61

Helen Lovatt Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 4 and the epic gaze: There and back 88 again Alexandros Kampakoglou Gazing at heroes in Apollonius’ Argonautica P. J. Finglass Gazing at Helen with Stesichorus

113

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Section II: Drama Emmanuela Bakola Seeing the invisible: Interior Spaces and Uncanny Erinyes in Aeschylus’ 163 Oresteia

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Contents

Anna Lamari Visual Intertextuality in Ancient Greek Drama: Euripides’ Bacchae and the 187 Use of the Art Media Anna Novokhatko “You must not stand in one place”: seeing in Sicilian and Old Attic 205 Comedy Christian Orth Visual and non-visual uses of demonstratives with the deictic ι in Greek Comedy 233

Section III: Rhetoric, Historiography, and Philosophy Ekaterina Chugaeva Haskins Reimagining Helen of Troy: Gorgias and Isocrates on Seeing and Being Seen 245 Rosie Harman Metahistory and the visual in Herodotus and Thucydides Felix K. Maier Dealing with the Invisible – War in Procopius

271

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Melina Tamiolaki Being or Appearing Virtuous? The Challenges of Leadership in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia 308 Andrea Nightingale The Aesthetics of Vision in Plato’s Phaedo and Timaeus

331

Section IV: Literary Texts meeting other Media Michael Squire A Picture of Ecphrasis: The Younger Philostratus and the Homeric Shield of Achilles 357

Contents

Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis Undressing For Artemis: Sensory Approaches to Clothes Dedications in 418 Hellenistic Epigram and in the Cult Of Artemis Brauronia Nikolaus Dietrich Viewing and Identification: The Agency of the Viewer in Archaic 464 and Early Classical Greek Visual Culture List of Contributors Subject Index Author Index

497 503

493

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List of Images Figure 2.1:

Figure 2.2:

Figure 2.3: Figure 7.1:

Figure 7.2: Figure 7.3: Figure 8.1: Figure 8.2: Figure 8.3: Figure 16.1:

Figure 16.2:

Figure 16.3:

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Figure 16.6:

Figure 17.1:

Attic black-figure eye-cup by the Cambridge Painter, 550–500 BCE, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum: inv. GR. 39.1864. © The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge 50 Attic black-figure olpe by Amasis Painter, 550–500 BCE, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art: inv. 59.11.17. © The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge 50 Protoattic black-figure amphora by the Polyphemus Painter, 670–660 BCE, Eleusis, Archaeological Museum: inv. 2630. © DAI Athens 51 Drawing of a still from the National Theatre Oresteia’s “tapestry scene”, directed by P. Hall (1981–83), filmed by Channel 4. Image credit: Rosa Wicks 169 Sketch reconstruction of Choephori 980 ff. Image credit: Rosa Wicks 173 Sketch reconstruction of Eumenides 307 ff. Image credit: Rosa Wicks 175 Drawing of Attic hydria, 425–400 BCE; Rome, Villa Giulia 55707. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]) 201 Drawing of Attic hydria, 3rd quarter of fifth century BCE; Krakow, Czartoryski 201 Museum 1225. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]) Apulian 350 BCE calyx-krater; London, British Museum F271. © Trustees of the British Museum 202 Wall painting from the Domus Uboni (Pompeii, IX.5.2). Image reproduced by kind permission of the Institut für Klassische Archäologie und Museum für Abgüsse Klassischer Bildwerke, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich 360 Wall painting from the Casa di Paccius Alexander (Pompeii, IX.1.7 = Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 110338). Image credit: M. J. Squire 361 Carnelian gem of Thetis and Hephaestus crafting the shield of Achilles, mid-first century BC (Wien, Kunsthistorisches Museum, inv. ANSA IX b 679; height 12 mm; width 9.2 mm; depth 2.6 mm). © Kunsthistorisches Museum, inv. ANSA IX b 679 362 Obverse of Tabula Iliaca 4N (= Rome, Musei Capitolini, Sala delle Colombe, inv. 83a). Image credit: M. J. Squire, reproduced with the kind permission of the Direzione, Musei Capitolini, Rome 363 Plaster cast of Tabula Iliaca 4N, held in the hand of the author (= Göttingen, Archäologisches Institut und Sammlung der Gipsabgüsse, inv. A1695). Image credit: M. J. Squire 364 Photograph of the inscribed text around the obverse rim of Tabula Iliaca 4N (as reproduced in the same Götttingen plaster cast). The first three columns of text can be seen here (from an original total of ten): Il. 18.483–492 (left), vv. 493–504 (second from left) and vv. 505–519 (third from left); a fourth column, to the right (on the damaged part of the rim) was inscribed with vv. 533–545. Image credit: Stefan Eckardt, reproduced with kind permission 366 Marble statues of Kleopatra and Dioskourides from the house of Kleopatra, Delos, c. 138–137 BC. Delos, Archaeological Museum A 7763, A 7799, A 7997a,

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-204

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List of Images

in situ. Dimensions: Height: 167 centimetres. © Gösta Hellner, DAI Athens, D-DAI-ATH-1970–0886 431 Figure 17.2: Terracotta Tanagra figure of woman seated on rock c. 250–200 BC. British Museum 1877,0515.7. Dimensions: Height: 15 centimetres. © Trustees of the British Museum 432 Figure 17.3: Red figure hydria showing a woman wearing a strophion and removing her chiton, attributed to The Group of London E230 c. 370–350 BC. British Museum 1856,1001.17. Dimensions: Height: 31.75 centimetres. © Trustees of the British Museum 434 Figure 17.4: Red figure phiale showing female musicians and dancers entertaining men, attributed to the Phiale Painter c. 430 BC. Boston (MA), Museum of Fine Arts 97.371. Diameter: 24.8 centimetres. © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 436 Figure 17.5: Drawing of Red figure cup attributed to the Brygos Painter c. 500–450 BC. Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco, 3921. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]) 437 Figure 17.6: Chous attributed to the Meidias Painter c. 420–410 BC. New York (NY), Metropolitan Museum of Art 75.2.1. Dimensions: Height 21.4 centimetres, Diameter 17.9 centimetres. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art 438 Figure 17.7: Fragmentary inventory of dedications to Artemis Brauronia from the Athenian Akropolis. British Museum. 1816,0610.223. Dimensions: Height: 76.2 centimetres, Width: 38.1 centimetres, Thickness: 15.85 centimetres. © Trustees of the British Museum 440 Figure 17.8: Plan of sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. Travlos, Ioannes (1988) Bildlexikon zur Topographie des antiken Attika, Tübingen, 61, fig.58. Image reproduced by kind permission of Ernst J. Wasmuth Verlag GmbH & Co. 447 Figure 17.9: The sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron, view of the stoa. Image credit: A. Petsalis-Diomidis 447 Figure 17.10: Drawing of Marble relief showing the presentation of an infant to a goddess from Echinos. Late fourth century to early third century BC. Lamia, Archaeological Museum 1041. Dimensions: Height 68 centimetres, Width 121 centimetres. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]) 453 Figure 17.11: Marble votive relief with sacrificial scene. Late second century BC. Munich Staatlich Ansammlung und Glyptothek 206. Dimensions: Height: 79 centimetres. © Renate Kühling 455 Figure 17.12: Marble votive relief showing procession of worshippers approaching Artemis from the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron, dedicated by Aristonike c. 350–300 BC. Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1151. Dimensions: Height: 57.5 centimetres, Width: 101 centimetres, Thickness: 11 centimetres. Image credit: Courtesy of The Archaeological Society at Athens 456 Figure 17.13.: Marble statue of girl standing and holding a hare from the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. Early third century BC. Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1158 (old 60). Dimensions: 80 centimetres. Image credit: Courtesy of The Archaeological Society at Athens 458 Figure 18.1: Miletus Torso, Musée du Louvre, Paris. Public domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen 465

List of Images

Figure 18.2: Figure 18.3:

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Figure 18.5: Figure 18.6: Figure 18.7: Figure 18.8: Figure 18.9: Figure 18.10:

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Amphora Kleophrades Painter, Antikensammlung Basel. © Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig, Basel. Image credit: Andreas F. Voegelin 467 Aristodikos kouros, National Museum, Athens. © BY-SA; Image credit: Zde

471 Isches kouros, Vathy Museum, Samos. Public domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen. 472 Amphora of Oltos, British Museum, London. © Trustees of the British Museum, London 473 Cup of Peithinos, Antikensammlung, Berlin. © bpk, Antikensammlung, SMB; Image-Nr.: 70149584; image credit: Johannes Laurentius 474 Calyx-Krater, Metropolitan Museum. © BY-NC-SA 2.0 Image credit: Egisto Sani

476 Votive relief, Epigraphical Museum, Athens. © DAI Athen; Negativ Nummer D-DAI-ATH-1969–1684; Image credit: Hermann Wagner 478 Grave stele of Aristion, National Museum, Athens.© BY-SA 2.0; Image credit:

479 Grave stele with boxer, Kerameikos Museum, Athens. © BY-SA 3.0. Image credit: Sp!ros. 480 Relief pithos, Musée du Louvre, Paris. Public Domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen 482 Oinochoe of the Taleides Painter, Musée du Louvre, Paris. Public domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen. 485 Krater Euphronios, Staatliche Antikensammlungen, Munich. © Staatliche Antikensammlungen München 486 Kroisos kouros, National Museum, Athens. Public Domain; image credit: Mountain 488

Introduction Visual culture is a key feature of ancient Greek life. Performance and spectacle lay at the heart of all aspects of daily routine, such as court and assembly, cult and ritual, and art and culture. Gazing and visuality in the ancient Greek world have had a central place in scholarship for some time now, enjoying an abundance of pertinent discussions and bibliography.1 Let us consider one example from a contemporary standard introduction to visual culture: “Visual culture does not depend on pictures themselves but the modern tendency to picture or visualize existence. This visualizing makes the modern period radically different from the ancient and medieval worlds”.2 This provocative statement challenges us to explore the meanings accorded to visualising in the ancient world (how “radically different” is the modern period from the ancient Greek one in this respect?), and the ways in which different cultures understand the act of looking. Classical sources present us with a range of ideas about seeing for any given period, ideas which are liable to change over time, sometimes quite dramatically. Ocularcentrism, as Martin Jay termed the supremacy of sight in his intellectual history of the gaze,3 is evident from the earliest surviving Greek texts. This concept of sight was to frame ancient thinkers’ approaches to philosophy and a whole range of epistemological questions, the act of seeing encapsulating both sensory and cognitive perception. Ocularcentrism is presented as a three-fold concept in the title of our volume which aims to explore the concepts of “gaze”, “vision”, and “visuality” in ancient Greek literature and art. Let us comment briefly on each of them, starting with the last one. “Visuality” has been discussed as a cultural and social phenomenon in many studies on the topic.4 It refers both to the cognitive processes through which the individual comes to view the world and to the cultural patterns in which the viewer exists. Opposing “vision” (our second term) to “visuality”, the art critic and historian Hal Foster argues in the preface to his book on the topic that “vision suggests sight as a physical operation”.5 However, the distinction of “vision” as a physical act and “visuality” as a cultural state or quality is not so simple; Fos-

1 See the most recent and thorough discussion of bibliography in Squire 2016b, 1–2, esp. n. 2. 2 Mirzoeff 1999, 5–6. 3 Jay 1993, 3 and passim. 4 Mirzoeff 2002. See also bibliography and the overview of contemporary trends in visual studies in Dikovitskaya 2005 and Heywood/Sandywell 2012. 5 Foster 1988, ix. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-205

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ter further argues that vision and visuality “are not opposed as nature is to culture: vision is social and historical too, and visuality involves the body and the psyche”.6 The first term of our title, “gaze”, has been accorded prominence by the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, “gaze” being the standard English translation of the much broader Lacanian term regard. For Lacan, it means not the mere act of looking, but a socially-determined, complex interactive relationship of agents and viewers, which is characteristic of a particular set of social circumstances. “What determines me, at the most profound level, in the visible, is the gaze that is outside. It is through the gaze that I enter light and it is from the gaze that I receive its effects”, wrote Lacan.7 This Lacanian determination of gaze has been studied extensively over the last fifty years, especially by Mulvey in her seminal 1975 article about the active masculine gaze in narrative cinema.8 Whilst the last fifty years have indeed produced a large number of studies on the dominance of the visual dimension, we can consider this period to be even longer if we recall the ideas of two Freiburgers from the first half of the 20th century (thus acknowledging the fact that the idea for this volume was also born in Freiburg im Breisgau!): the ocularcentric theories of Edmund Husserl and Martin Heidegger.9 The process of learning to see what lies before our eyes is transformed by Husserl into a programme for training the mental eye (geistiges Auge), phenomenology.10 Heidegger posed similar questions in his essay of 1938 on the “world picture” (Weltbild), which means “not a picture of the world, but the world conceived as a picture” (“nicht ein Bild von der Welt, sondern die Welt als Bild begriffen”), and analysed the metaphysics of vision and visibility.11 These notions, as well as other ideas of vision, have been applied to ancient literature over the past few decades and have brought new perspectives to the interpretation of classical texts.12 Responding to this process, various anci-

6 Ibid. In Lacanian terms, physical vision and social visuality would perhaps be explained in terms of “the eye and the gaze”; see Lacan 1979, 67–78. 7 Lacan 1979, 106. 8 Mulvey 1975. On the concept of gaze as it passes from Sartre to Lacan, see the stimulating article by Bryson 1988. See also work on theories of representation, Bryson et.al 1991. 9 On the visual turn in the 20th century, see, for example, the very good overviews in Evans/ Hall 1999, Sturken/Cartwright 2001, and Jones 2012; on the vision-centred paradigm of perception in European thought, see e.g. Levin 1993a and Jay 1993. 10 On Husserl in the context of sight theories, see Rawlinson 1999 and Levin 1999, 60–93. 11 On Heidegger’s views on seeing, see Levin 1999, 170–215; on Heidegger’s interpretation of Greek metaphysics of vision and visibility, see Levin 1993b and McNeill 1999, 17–54. 12 On approaches to vision and theories of the gaze applied to classics, with a broader bibliography discussion, see Lovatt 2013, 7–11.

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xvii

ent works on the concept and theory of vision have been “rediscovered” in order to re-evaluate ancient ocularcentrism “rather than simply impose modern ideas back onto ancient models”.13 Apart from the standard monograph of Simon (1988) and collective works such as Villard (2002) and Villard (2005), it is only in the last four years that we have seen a surge of interest in sight and vision in the ancient world, with the publication of three important volumes of collected papers on the subject. Many of the authors who appear in these works have also contributed chapters to this volume. Two of these publications, Courtray (2013) and Squire (2016a), extend their focus from Archaic Greece (in one contribution even from Ancient Egypt) to the rise of Christianity in Late Antiquity; the third volume, Blundell et al. (2013) focuses on the consideration of vision in the Ancient Greek world. All three volumes are conceived thematically, considering topics such as how looking is represented, ways of looking, light and vision, the interface between the written text and the material object, theorising vision, and ideas about sight. So why is another volume on the topic necessary? If our volume differs from these previous publications, it is in its emphasis on diverse genres: the concepts “gaze”, “vision” and “visuality” are considered across different Greek genres and media. By setting a broad time span, we seek to track the evolution of visual culture in Greece, while also addressing broader topics such as theories of vision and the prominence of visuality in specific periods, and the position of visuality in the hierarchisation of the senses. Literary genres host acts of viewing or describe other visual experiences, and thus debate the notion and function of seeing. Seeing was considered the most secure means of obtaining knowledge, with many scholars citing the etymological connection between “seeing” and “knowing” in ancient Greek as evidence for this. However, seeing was also associated with mere appearances, false perception and deception. Genres repeatedly employ sight-related language, exploring multiple interconnections between viewing, understanding and knowing. The recipients of ancient Greek literature (both oral and written) are thus encouraged to perceive the narrated scenes as spectacles and to “follow the gaze” of the characters in the narrative. Alongside the general progression from literature to artistic and material evidence, the discussions featured in this volume are organised according to a generic and roughly chronological scheme, proceeding from epic through drama to prose, and concluding with visual arts. The choice of authors and genres

13 Squire 2016b, 9.

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is necessarily subjective as it is impossible to reflect all genres within the framework of one book. The editorial team set itself the task of emphasizing those genres which have received less coverage in other discussions on this topic. The first five chapters consider the epic genre, with three papers on Homer (Létoublon, Grethlein and Michel) and two on Apollonius of Rhodes (Lovatt and Kampakoglou), followed by an article on the lyric poet Stesichorus (Finglass). Four further chapters deal with Classical drama, two on tragedy (Bakola and Lamari) and two on comedy (Novokhatko and Orth). After a contribution on rhetoric (Haskins), the next two chapters focus on historiography, of the classical times (Harman) and of the late sixth century CE (Maier). The following two chapters deal with the political and philosophical thought of the fourth century BCE; one studies Xenophon’s Cyropaedia (Tamiolaki) whilst the other considers Plato (Nightingale). The last three chapters represent the transition from literary genres to other media: two are interdisciplinary in their approach (Squire and Petsalis-Diomidis), while the third deals primarily with the visual arts (Dietrich). The order of the chapters emphasises genre over chronological considerations. Therefore, for example, Hellenistic epic poetry is discussed within the epic section at the beginning (Lovatt and Kampakoglou), Procopius (Maier) is discussed alongside papers on fifth- and fourth-century BCE historiography, and Archaic and Early Classical sculpture and vase-painting conclude the volume (Dietrich). Along similar lines, the placement of Lamari’s chapter emphasizes its interdisciplinarity since it considers tragic plots along reflections on vases. What can be gained by looking at the same questions simultaneously across different genres? First of all, this focused approach distinguishes generic stereotypes and conventions and allows a better understanding of vision and visuality. Of course, there are no rigid rules; the famous “crossing” of genres is inevitable, with many elements of one genre repeated, borrowed, imitated and parodied by another. Nevertheless, the focus on genre-specific themes, context, performance, content, structure and style determines the subject of this volume in a specific manner. As Charles Segal notes, “Genre is the mediating term between the literary work and the various cultural discourses and social functions within which literature operates”.14 This approach is enhanced by the inclusion of an art historical perspective, which supplements literary scholarship with approaches concerned primarily with artistic and material media such as sculpture and vase-painting. The focus on “vision” is thus mediated between the act of creation and the various cultural and social discourses supporting

14 Segal 1994, ix.

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this act. Literary texts and artefacts appear as complex and multi-layered entities analysed from the perspective of vision and visuality. By virtue of being explored in different epochs and genres, ancient Greek vision provides a particularly enriching case for such a hermeneutics. By gathering these new complex pictures together, the editors’ challenge has been to map out the generic and chronological expanse from Homer to Procopius. In analysing the manner in which such a central concept as “seeing” is employed and explored in various genres, our objective has been to inspire fresh discussions of “vision” and the “visual”. Discussions which will be informed by the recognition that genres are sets “of readerly competences – codes, conventions, levels of style, situations, stereotypes, vocabulary”.15 As already mentioned, the volume opens with five chapters that consider epic poetry. Françoise Létoublon looks at the Iliad as theatre: in the setting of a large-scale spectacle, the poet puts on stage the struggle for power played out through the battles around the walls of Troy. The internal viewers of these events act as mediators for the epic audience. Létoublon explores the main devices that the Iliad employs to allow us to “watch” this theatre. In so doing, Létoublon traces an increasing tension from Achilles’ anger in Book 1 to his encounter with Priam in Book 24, which she parallels to the development of plot in Athenian tragedy. Among the devices used for dramatising the action, Létoublon analyses how the poet sometimes creates imaginary spectators or directly addresses the characters, especially Patroclus. In this theatre, some objects, like Achilles’ spear, intervene with the status of a quasi-character. An increasing tension reaches its climax at the meeting between Priam and Achilles and the exceptional simile in Book 24, in which the elderly Priam is viewed by Achilles with a mixture of admiration and stupor (θάμβος). Létoublon analyses this simile and compares it to another, that of the nightmare in Book 22. Both similes are positioned at the highest points of the dramatised narrative. Jonas Grethlein teases out the significance of gaze for the narrative dynamic of the Odyssey, exploring it as an expression of desire and aggression. The nexus between gaze and desire that can be observed elsewhere in Homer is disrupted on Ogygia and Scheria, where instead of desiring beautiful women and marvelling at wonders, Odysseus desires “to see the day of his homecoming”. Through the visual semantics of nostos, vision does not provoke desire, but has instead become its object. Besides underscoring Odysseus’ iron will to return home, gaze also highlights an increase in Odysseus’ active heroism over the course of the narrative. In the Apologoi, Odysseus is exposed to the controlling eyes of monstrous opponents, whilst on Ithaca his own assaultive gaze

15 Ibid.

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anticipates and accompanies his revenge. Grethlein finally turns to vase-painting to show that the Odyssey’s clever use of gaze for narrative purposes forms part of a broader interest in vision in Archaic Greece. In her chapter, Claudia Michel focuses on blindness. The motif of blindness is shown to be Ariadne’s thread running through the narrative structure of the Odyssey. Michel’s chapter first analyses both Odysseus’ quasi-anatomical account of the blinding of Polyphemus, which features parallels with fragment 84 of Empedocles, and the representation of the monster’s behavioural anomalies after the blinding (1). The next section is concerned with the disturbance that emotional excess brings upon visual perception. Penelope’s tears and grief prevent the visual recognition of her husband (2.1), whilst the suitors and Odysseus’ companions, “blinded” by ὕβρις or ἀτασθαλίαι, fail to perceive their own limits and are haunted by visions (2.2). Finally, Michel examines the association between blindness and the Muses (3): the blind singer Demodocus plays an important role as internal narrator, a character who has perhaps inspired the legend of the blind poet. The following two chapters are dedicated to Apollonius. Helen Lovatt’s contribution discusses the visuality of Apollonius’ Argonautica through a detailed examination of Book 4. Building on aspects already discussed in her 2013 book The Epic Gaze (such as the Talos episode), Lovatt aims to delineate the ways in which Book 4 is similar to yet differs from earlier books of the poem in its use of gaze and vision, examining the explorers’ gaze and the colonial gaze, the Argonauts as subjects and objects, order and chaos, epiphanies, the poetics of darkness, narrative control, levels of knowledge, and the association between knowledge, power, gaze and senses other than vision. She argues that the powerful cartographic gaze of Books 1 and 2 is much attenuated in Book 4, that the gaze of the Argonauts fails frequently and darkness is more dominant. The narrative oscillates disturbingly between power, control, success and light on the one hand, and disempowerment, helplessness, confusion and darkness on the other. Alexandros Kampakoglou poses the question central to almost every reading of Apollonius’ Argonautica, “What is a hero?”, and tries to establish whether Jason is in fact a hero. His chapter approaches this time-honoured question from the point of view of gaze. Gaze, he argues, is central to the construction of heroic identity and status. Time and again, blinding brilliance, star imagery and the colour red are associated with the impression that Jason makes on internal audiences. A closer examination of selected passages indicates that the language used in these scenes imitates that of manifestations of divine beings (epiphanies) in other texts. Apollonius follows a venerable tradition that reaches back to Homer and creates an association between Jason and

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the Homeric heroes such as Achilles and Odysseus. However, unlike Homer, Apollonius emphasises the role that such heroic manifestations, or “epiphanies” as Kampakoglou calls them, play in thwarting the potential threat of female characters who could compromise the success of the expedition. The erotic overtones that permeate such encounters suggest affinities between the language of Apollonius and that of lyric poets such as Sappho. Ultimately, Apollonius’ representation of Jason and the Argonauts confirms the epic definition of the hero as an exceptional being that combines divine and feral aspects. It is through gaze that these aspects are foregrounded. Transitioning from epic to lyric, Patrick Finglass examines the presentation of Helen of Troy as the recipient of the male gaze, first (briefly) in Homer, then in Stesichorus. He argues that this presentation relates closely to the moral evaluation of Helen found in both poets. He examines the extend to which she can be fairly characterised as a passive recipient of the male gaze, as opposed to a more active participant in the act of viewing, even when she is its target. The following two chapters analyse tragedy. Emmanuela Bakola argues that a cognitive approach to the ancient viewing experience of the Oresteia is crucial to understanding the Erinyes’ role in the trilogy as a whole. She demonstrates that the Erinyes’ invisible nature and its depiction in performance are key to recognising that they are present on stage across the trilogy far more than previously imagined. Bakola argues that by engaging ingeniously with the visible and the invisible in relation to the interior of the skene-building, and by positioning bodies, props and machinery in highly suggestive ways, Aeschylean dramaturgy makes the viewer “see” the Erinyes at key points of the trilogy and confirms these daemonic entities’ near-ubiquitous role. The appearances of the Erinyes to the viewer, which are mostly confirmed retrospectively as the trilogy unfolds and as patterns are repeated and reasserted, are always connected with the skene interior, ancient theatre’s space of the “unseen” par excellence. Anna Lamari’s focus is Euripides. She examines the system of visual allusions shared by Euripidean tragedy and fifth-century material media. Using the Bacchae as her main case-study, she discusses the manner in which Euripides manipulates his audience’s visual literacy to construct a multi-layered text, imbued with visual puns that work as hyperlinks to mental images stored in the spectators’ visual memory. The first part of the paper offers the theoretical basis for the discussion. The second focuses on specific visual connections between the Bacchae and other visual (theatrical or pictorial) representations of Dionysus-induced madness, showing how first-level target images work as “windows” allowing the audience to look through them to other plays. Pictorial representations are thus used as mediators to channel a visual allusion from a later to an earlier

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play. In this light, Lamari discusses the visual connections between the Bacchae and Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia trilogy, but also between the Bacchae and Aeschylus’ Xantriae and Toxotides. By means of visual allusion, Lamari maintains, Euripides constructs a heavily layered narrative, loaded with encrypted connections to earlier plays. The following two chapters deal with Old Comedy. Anna Novokhatko argues that concepts of sight, gaze and vision develop over time in Sicilian and Old Attic comedy. She discusses five aspects of seeing in comedy: staging, mapping, narrating, representing characters through the way they look, and sight theories incorporated into the plot. In this categorisation, she discusses the intersection of vision with the comic as well as the complex relationship between the author, the character, the actor and the spectator. Examining the comic representation of sight and vision contributes both to the better understanding of contemporary sight theories and to self-referential concepts of spectacle and vision in comedy itself. Adapting terminology developed for the analysis of modern languages, Christian Orth’s chapter proposes a classification of different uses (exophoric, endophoric and recognitional) of demonstratives with the deictic -ί in Greek Comedy, with particular attention to cases where these demonstratives do not refer to something visible on stage at the moment of use. Perhaps the most interesting of these uses is the rare recognitional use, which so far has received very little (if any) attention in discussions of the deictic -ί. The endophoric and recognitional demonstratives with deictic -ί may be explained as “metaphorical” uses of a visual element, through which things not visible are presented as if they were. Exploring the genre of rhetoric, which was contemporary to Old Comedy, Ekaterina Haskins contests the narrow and depoliticised notion of epideictic inherited from Aristotle by rereading the encomia of Helen composed by the recognised masters of rhetorical display, Gorgias of Leontini and Isocrates. These display speeches not only model the art of showing through words but also illuminate the culture of spectacle and spectatorship in which rhetoric emerged as a public practice and a distinct branch of learning. Under the guise of praise for Helen, Gorgias and Isocrates show their contemporaries how to appreciate spectacles critically on the one hand, and how to balance the pursuit of honour with the needs of the political community on the other. In their hands, the artfully written encomium becomes a means for appraising the psychological and political dimensions of seeing and being seen. Following on from this, the next two chapters concentrate on historiography. In her contribution, Rosie Harman examines the metahistorical implications of the representation of the visual in Herodotus and Thucydides, both of

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whom present their accounts as available, ready to be seen by the reader, as well as presenting spectators within the text as viewing and responding to events. Their scenes of spectatorship are therefore a reflection on the reading of history. Frequently, however, the spectators of these texts are misled by deceptive displays or won over by impressive sights, leading to misguided judgements. Previous readings of these scenes have seen them as showing how not to read history, offering a foil for the authoritative voice of the historical narrator who provides a more secure means of accurately assessing events. In contrast, Harman suggests some ways in which the reader remains implicated in the problems faced by internal spectators. It suggests that while these writers’ scenes of spectatorship do reflect on the problems of reading history, they actively involve the reader in these problems, forcing the reader to consider his or her own response and to confront the political implications of that response for the present. Focusing his discussion on a later representative of the same genre, Felix Maier argues that in his Wars of Justinian the late antique scholar and historian Procopius does not narrate history from a neutral vantage point, but lets the reader share the perspectives of his protagonists. This method of reporting action not only leads to a thrilling narrative but also enables the reader to experience history from the agents’ points of view. Maier presents some examples of Procopius’ narrative skills, exploring how and why the historian confronts the reader with certain perspectives in specific situations. Returning to the fourth century BCE, we focus on two disciples of Socrates. Melina Tamiolaki studies Xenophon and analyses the distinction between “appearing” and “being” in the Cyropaedia. The starting point for Tamiolaki’s article is a passage of the Cyropaedia, in which Cyrus’ father, Cambyses, advises his son that the best way for the leader to appear wise is to be truly wise. Scholars tend to interpret Cambyses’ advice as privileging “being” over “appearing”. However, through a detailed examination of references to the verbs δοκῶ and φαίνομαι in the Cyropaedia (and related expressions such as φανερός εἰμί, ἀναφαίνομαι, etc.), Tamiolaki argues that perceptions and impressions, in other words the φαίνεσθαι in a broader sense, are crucial for a leader, ultimately much more so than the εἶναι. Therefore, the most critical element is how the leader appears, what impression he gives to those around him, how he becomes a model to emulate, and how this enables him to impose his authority. Andrea Nightingale examines Plato’s “aesthetics of extravagance” in his accounts of the beautiful “variegation” of natural phenomena in the Phaedo eschatology and in the movements of the stars in the Timaeus. In the former, Plato focuses on the beauty of the variegated interaction of colours in the “ae-

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thereal” realm, whilst in the latter, he describes the collective movements of the stars as a variegated “dance”. Here, Plato borrows and deviates from the language of choral dances at religious festivals. In festival choral dances, the music, poetic words and dance motions conjure up multiple referents even as they invite the viewer to “unite” with the god. For the viewer of the star-dance in Plato, the philosopher “unites” with a rational god by seeing the “star dance” as pointing to a single referent: the nous of the divine world-soul that moves the stars. Nightingale contrasts these accounts of Plato’s “extravagant aesthetics” to the “minimalist aesthetics” set forth in the Philebus. The final three chapters effect the transition to other media. Michael Squire’s chapter explores the idea of “viewing” Homeric poetry. More specifically, Squire turns to Homer’s most famous feat of poetic visualisation: the description of the shield of Achilles, created by Hephaestus in the eighteenth book of the Iliad (Il. 18.478–608). The Homeric passage prompted all manner of literary engagements and critical discussions in antiquity. After briefly sketching the reception of the passage, Squire concerns himself with one literary response in particular, dating from the early fourth century CE: a passage from the Imagines of the Younger Philostratus, which set out to describe a purported gallery of paintings. Squire focuses on a single tableau within the work (Imag. 10), centred around a literary description of a purported painting drawn from the Homeric evocation of the shield crafted by Hephaestus. That knowing recession of representational registers – from text to image to text (and back again) – is fundamental. If the Younger Philostratus transforms the Homeric verbal description into an imaginary painting, he simultaneously mediates that image through his spoken address before it (now represented, of course, through the written text in hand). The intellectual brilliance lies in the questions that the Younger Philostratus poses about words as images and images as words: the passage interrogates what it means to view a picture, no less than the hermeneutics of seeing through reading. Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis’ opening section focuses on viewing dedications of clothes first through close readings of Hellenistic dedicatory epigrams, then through an analysis of the effect of the embodied experience of reading these poems in private domestic spaces, and finally through an exploration of the broader cultural meanings of disembodied clothes using the evidence of red figure vase-paintings. In her second section, Petsalis-Diomidis takes a closer look at a very different type of text about clothes dedications, the Late Classical inventories of clothing dedications to Artemis Brauronia. To a degree, these are read in the context of dedicatory epigrams, both in terms of discourse and content, and in terms of the differences in the embodied experience of reading these stone texts. The inventories are also used as evidence for the display of

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actual clothe dedications in the sanctuary. Finally, her third section considers votive sculptural depictions of clothes in the light of broader cultural meanings and the specific associations of the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. While differences emerge in the embodied and sensory experience of engaging with literary, inscriptional, “real” and sculptural clothes in their different contexts of reception, Petsalis-Diomidis argues that in each case a key feature is the evocation of the absent body of the dedicant and the triangulation of deity, dedicant and viewer through the medium of the votive garment. Finally, Nikolaus Dietrich studies ancient modes of viewing “art” through certain examples of Archaic and Early Classical Greek images. He focuses on the widespread phenomenon of (what could be termed) “iconographic underdetermination” in sculpture and vase-painting. In such images, the task of identifying the figures is, as Dietrich claims, mostly left to the viewer. Through the combined analysis of iconography and accompanying inscriptions, the extensive agency assigned to the viewer in Archaic and Early Classical Greek visual culture is made evident. The visual has often been called “a place where meanings are created and contested”.16 As Maurice Merleau-Ponty put it in his 1945 Phénoménologie de la perception: “My gaze can only be compared with previous acts of seeing or with acts of seeing accomplished by others through the intermediary of time and language”.17 Through the wide-ranging generic perspectives serving here as “the intermediary of time and language”, we want to explore Greek “acts of seeing”. We hope that our volume offers new interpretations of classical ideas about vision and visuality and helps to explain how these came about in ancient Greek thought as represented in various media and genres.

Bibliography Blundell, S. / D. Cairns / N. Rabinowitz (eds.) (2013), Vision and Viewing in Ancient Greece, Helios 40, 1–2, special issue. Bryson, N. (1988), The Gaze in the Expanded Field, in: Foster (1988), 87–108. Bryson, N. / M. A. Holly / K. Moxey (eds.) (1991), Visual theory: painting and interpretation, Cambridge. Courtray, R. (2013) (ed.), Regard et représentation dans l’Antiquité. Pallas 92, special issue. Dikovitskaya, M. (2005). Visual Culture: The Study of the Visual after the Cultural Turn. Cambridge, Mass. / London. Evans, J. / S. Hall (1999) (eds.), Visual culture: the reader, London.

16 Merzoeff 1999, 6. 17 Merleau-Ponty 2012, 72.

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Foster, H. (1988) (ed.), Vision and Visuality. Seattle, Wasington. Heywood, I. / B. Sandywell (2012) (eds.), The Handbook of Visual Culture. London / New York. Jay, M. (1993), Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought. Berkeley. Jones, A. (2012), Seeing Differently: a History and Theory of Identification and the Visual Arts, London / New York. Lacan, J. (1979) (= Éditions du Seuil, 1973). The four fundamental concepts of psychoanalysis. Ed. by J.-A. Miller; transl. by A. Sheridan. Penguin Books. Levin, D. M. (1993a) (ed.), Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. Berkeley / Los Angeles / London. Levin, D. M. (1993b), “Decline and Fall: Ocularcentrism in Heidegger’s Reading of the History of Metaphysics”, in: Levin (1993a) 186–217. Levin, D. M. (1999) The philosopher’s gaze: modernity in the shadows of Enlightment. Berkeley / Los Angeles / London. Lovatt, H. (2013), The Epic Gaze: Vision, Gender and Narrative in Ancient Epic. Cambridge. Merleau-Ponty, M. (2012) (=Phénoménologie de la perception, 1945), Phenomenology of Perception. Transl. by D. A. Landes. London. Mirzoeff, N. (1999), An introduction to visual culture. London. Mirzoeff, N. (2002) (ed.), The visual culture reader. 2nd ed. London / New York. Mulvey, L. (1975), “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”, in: Screen 16.3, 6–18. Rawlinson, M. C. (1999), “Perspectives and Horizons: Husserl on Seeing the Truth”, in: D. M. Levin (ed.), Sites of Vision: the Discursive Construction of Sight in the History of Philosophy, Cambridge, Mass. / London, 265–292. Segal, C. (1994), “Foreword: Literary History as Literary Theory”, in: G. B. Conte, Genres and Readers: Lucretius, Love Elegy, Pliny’s Encyclopedia. Transl. by G. W. Most, Baltmore / London, vii-xv. Simon, G. (1988), Le regard, l’être, et l’apparence dans l’optique de l’antiquité, Paris. Squire, M. (2016a) (ed.), Sight and the Ancient Sences. London / New York. Squire, M. (2016b). “Introductory Reflections: Making Sense of Ancient Sight”, in: Squire (2016a), 1–35. Sturken, M. / L. Cartwright (2001) (eds.), Practices of Looking: an Introduction to Visual Culture, Oxford. Villard, L. (2002) (ed.) Couleurs et vision dans l’Antiquité classique, Rouen. Villard, L. (2005) (ed.) Études sur la vision dans l’Antiquité classique, Rouen.

Françoise Létoublon

War as a spectacle “Gaze, vision and visuality”: the subject of this volume indicates a major interest in visual perception in Greek literature. As none of these terms corresponds to a Greek proper word, at least in the archaic period I am concerned with, it seems difficult to approach this very wide field. For a general overview, I will therefore use the notions developed by Alex Purves in her recent book, Space and Time in Greek Literature (Cambridge, 2010), and in Michael Squire’s introduction of the recent volume Sight and the Ancient Senses (Abingdon, 2016). Since neither book deals with Greek language concerning sight, I will rely on some lexical remarks, starting with the lexical entries regarding Homer’s attempt to understand what “to see” means for the Archaic period. I will thereafter follow the gazes of the characters and the narrator in the Iliad, intending to show how the dramatic tension increases until the meeting between Priam and Achilles in Book 24, where I analyse the reciprocity of the gaze through the ambiguity of a famous simile. The dramatic tension of the passage owes much to this mirror effect,1 and shows that Homeric language concerning gaze does not reflect a merely physical process, but also induces a high level of emotion. The central role that sight plays in Homer is well proven by the number of links between seeing and living; as several Homeric formulas indicate, to see means to live, and conversely to lose sight means to die.2 Taking Aristotelian terminology as her point of departure, Purves (2010, 1–64) shows that Homer, the “perfect surveyor”,3 aims for an “Eusynoptic Iliad”. In my own course, following the Iliad from Achilles’ anger to Hector’s lusis, I will try to adopt a “bird’s-eye view”, borrowing the expression from de Jong and Nünlist 2004b,

1 See Squire’s introduction for the insistence on both the reciprocity of the gaze and the mirror effect, with the splendid epigram he quotes as an epigraph, where the mirror is speaking in the first person. 2 Létoublon 2010, Michel in this volume. See, for instance, Il. 5.10 (οὐδέ μέ ϕησι | δηρὸν ἔτ’ ὄψεσθαι λαμπρὸν ϕάος ἠελίοιο), 18.61 = 442 (ὄϕρα δέ μοι ζώει καὶ ὁρᾷ ϕάος ἠελίοιο), 24.558 (αὐτόν τε ζώειν καὶ ὁρᾶν ϕάος ἠελίοιο). See also the formulas with δερκ– below in n. 16. 3 The expression comes from George Puttenham’s The Arte of English Poesie, quoted as an epigraph (Purves 2010, 1). Note: It is a pleasant duty to thank the organisers and participants of the Freiburg Gaze Conference for all their remarks, and particularly Deborah Steiner for her help in the discussion. I am also deeply grateful to Stephen Rojcewicz for more than simply correcting my English, and to the anonymous reviewers whose remarks were very useful for revising and enhancing my text. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-002

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meaning I will focus on certain episodes and “fly over” the rest.4 I share Purves’ nuanced position: “throughout the Iliad, human vision is complicated by the fantasy of what or how these immortals see. There is a tendency […] for the audience of the poem to take their own visual cues from these divine superwitnesses. Homeric scholarship has also emphasised, however, that the Iliad is difficult to visualise as a single, coherent entity. Not only do we run into problems connected with sequence and simultaneity when attempting to “see” the plot as if it were a picture, but we are also given very few examples of clear-sighted human vision within the poem. Despite scholars’ observations about the occasional panoramic standpoint of the Homeric narrator, we are rarely afforded a sustained bird’s-eye view. […] We are faced with the paradox of Aristotle’s interpretation of a poem that adheres in form to the principles of what is eusynoptic, and that, even in the surface area of its plot, fills an area that could be of approximately the right size to be seen in one view, if one could attain the right vantage point. Yet within the poem itself, the account of the war takes place only frame by frame, moving from one point of view to the next.”5

Homeric language of sight and semantic features There are actually very few nouns signifying “gaze” in Homer. I may cite in the Iliad two appearances of the accusative ὄψιν, one of the dative ὄψει; the first may mean “sight” as one of the senses, the others rather mean “appearance”.6 Therefore we may suppose that there was at this time no abstract notion of “sight”, at least linguistically speaking.7 The verbal forms are numerous; ὁράω, εἶδον, ὄψομαι and ὄπωπα already form the same heteroclitic paradigm, as the phrases with the instrumental dative of the name of sight

4 For instance, though aware of its importance in the question of text and image, I will deliberately leave aside the famous description of Achilles’ shield in Book 18; in my view, this description occurs in an intense dramatic context (Létoublon 1999a), but is not part of my vision of “war as a spectacle”. 5 Purves 2010, 34–35. 6 Il. 6.468 (… πατρὸς φίλου ὄψιν ἀτυχθείς), 24.632 (εἰσορόων ὄψιν τ᾽ ἀγαθὴν καὶ μῦθον ἀκούων), 20.205 (ὄψει δ᾽ οὔτ῎ ἄρ πω σὺ ἐμοὺς ἴδες οὔτ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἐγὼ σούς). 7 I do not share Bruno Snell’s (1975) opinion that if there is no word in Homer meaning, for instance, “mind”, there was no contemporary notion of mind and person. I think that several features, like the deliberative monologues, clearly show that Homeric characters do have a sense of self-consciousness, as the use of μερμηρίζειν proves.

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organ, ὀφθαλμός, show.8 Homeric Greek also knows a more archaic term, formed on *okw– like the future and perfect already mentioned, and most often used in the dual form ὄσσε, but ὀφθαλμός appears to be the living form in the language of Homer, as shown by its use when the eyes encounter an injury in course of fighting.9 As shown by other cases, verbs that describe common or basic ideas tend to form their tenses using several lexical roots, which are linked to fine semantic nuances.10 By leaning on Indo-European etymology and the meanings of certain compounds like φρουρά, “watch, guard”, we may discern that in some occurrences ὁράω, probably in connection with the durative aspect of the present, implies a notion of attention or intention in sight that the aorist aspect does not.11 One could relate these remarks on Greek usage to contemporary theories of sight, for instance to the “extramissionist” vs. “intromissionist” explanations.12 Unfortunately this study would require a long time and a long text. It could instead be possible to speak of an “objective”

8 Il. 1.587, 3.28, 3.169, 3.306, 5.212, 10.275, 13.99 = 15.286 = 20.344 = 21.54, 14.436, 15.488, 15.600, 16.182, 17.466, 17.646, 18.190, 19.174, 20.342, 22.25, 22.169, 22.236, 23.202, 24.246, 24.392, 24.555. I have listed here all the instances in the Iliad, in order to show that the phrase occurs with all the tenses of the verb (ἴδ–, ὁρ–, are relatively frequent, but see also ὄψομαι and ὄπωπα). I further note that the dative without a preposition occurs much more frequently than the dative with ἐν; the instrumental value of the dative is clear. Snell probably looked only at the four items with ἐν, emphasising the locative value (Snell 1975, 23). There are numerous parallel expressions in several modern languages (French voir de ses yeux). In Greek, I notice a parallel phrase with the organ used for moving in the dative, βαίνω with ποσί. 9 For instance Il. 14.499 (… ἔτι δ᾽ ὄβριμον ἔγχος | ἦεν ἐν ὀφθαλμῷ), Il. 16.741 (… ὀφθαλμοὶ δὲ χαμαὶ πέσον ἐν κονίῃσι). 10 I also mention λέγω (Hom. ἀγοράω), εἶπον, and εἴρηκα for the concept of “to say, to speak”: for the aorist and perfect, Homer uses ancient verbal roots, which have approximately the same meaning. However, Homer uses ἀγοράω for the present, a verb meaning “publicly speak”, while λέγω means “to pick up, to choose”. For the still more complicated case of verbs of movement verb (e.g. ἔρχομαι, εἶμι, ἦλθον), see Létoublon 1985. See also “to eat”, ἔδω, ἐσθίω, ἔφαγον: even when we cannot recognise the specific semantic features of each stem, we may suppose that there are some. As an argument for justifying this feature, a German specialist once quoted the following proverb: “Liebe Kinder haben viele Name”. 11 Chantraine 2009, 784–5, s. v. ὁράω: “ὁρά- signifie ‘tenir les yeux sur’ et se rapporte au sujet, non à l’objet et à la perception comme εἶδον.” 12 See the chapters on sight in Greek philosophy by Rudolph and Nightingale in Squire (2016), and Squire’s introduction (2016, 16): “As for the mechanics of sight, different Greek and Roman schools of thought championed divergent conceptual models. Crucial here are two generic theories about how vision operates, which modern scholars have labelled ‘extramissionist’ and ‘intromissionist’ respectively. According to the first ‘extramissive’ […] theory, the sense of sight was understood to emanate from fiery rays actively cast out from the eye, travelling to the thing seen. At the other extreme […] the atomists […] understood visible objects as emanating atomthick replicas (eidōla) that moved through space and impacted upon the eye.”

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meaning versus a “subjective” one, with the terms “objective” and “subjective” referring to the grammatical, rather than psychological, object or subject of the verb respectively.13 As Snell remarked in the opening essay of Die Entdeckung des Geistes, “Die Auffassung des Menschen bei Homer”, Homeric language actually knows other verbal roots for the notion of sight: he notes that λεύσσω keeps, from its etymological link with λευκός, a positive nuance, “etwas Helles schauen. Ausserdem heisst es: in die Weite schauen. […] λεύσσειν bezeichnet offenbar bestimmte Gefühl mit, die man beim Sehen, vor allem beim Sehen bestimmter Gegenstände hat.[…] nie wird λεύσσειν beim kummervollem oder ängstlichem Sehen gebraucht”.14 Δέρκομαι, with a complete paradigm in Homer, seems more complicated; for the first semantic approach, Snell is probably right in saying “Dementsprechend bezeichnet bei Homer δέρκεσθαι nicht so sehr die Funktion des Auges, sondern das Strahlen des Auges, das ein anderer warnimmt”.15 But this verb also shows uses with the instrumental dative ὀφθαλμοῖσι as an equivalent of “to live”, which seems to argue for a kind of synonymy with the suppletive paradigm.16 Another question arises that I cannot answer here: why the I.-E. root *okw–, which could represent a fundamental verb for the notion of sight, occurs in Greek only in the future and perfect, both usages apparently archaic.17 Before we leave the language of sight, let us remark that βλέπω, which is not used in Homer but is very frequent in classical Greek, seems to cover more or less the meanings of δέρκεσθαι and ὁρῶ.

13 The subjective meaning seems also prevalent for the verbal family of σκεπτ–, σκοπ–. See LSJ9 s. v. σκέπτομαι, “to look about carefully, spy”, σκοπέω “to behold, contemplate […], examine, inspect”. 14 Snell 1975, 15. But see Chantraine (2009, 608): “‘diriger son regard vers, voir’ […]; ce verbe exprime l’idée d’un flux visuel rayonnant des yeux, non de l’objet, malgré Treu, Von Homer zur Lyrik, 64.” 15 Snell 1975, 15. 16 See Il. 14.436 (ὃ δ’ ἀμπνύνθη καὶ ἀνέδρακεν ὀϕθαλμοῖσιν),Od. 19.446 (πῦρ δ’ ὀϕθαλμοῖσι δεδορκώς); for the equivalence with “live”, see Il. 1.88 (οὔ τις ἐμεῦ ζῶντος καὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ δερκομένοιο) and Od. 16.439 (ζώοντός γ’ ἐμέθεν καὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ δερκομένοιο). 17 Regarding ὄψομαι and ὄπωπα, I call attention to the fact that the Greek future tense stems from the I.-E. desiderative mood. This is especially clear in the middle voice. As far as the perfect ὄπωπα is concerned, this appears to be an archaic form on account of the vowel o, reduplication and lengthening. Snell’s view that the present tense ὄσσομαι seems frequent is negligible since it occurs only once at Il. 22.356 (ἦ σ᾽εὖ γιγνώσκων προτιόσσομαι).

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The theatre of the Iliad I propose to look at the Iliad as theatre, a theatre created before the term was even coined.18 The poet puts on stage in a large-scale spectacle the struggle for power through the battles for Troy. He shows us a spectacle viewed by people who act as mediators for the epic audience. Our position is paradoxical since theatre is generally defined by characters shown as both acting and speaking for themselves. Epic narrative, on the other hand, describes characters in the third person. Although Homer often uses direct discourse, the war does not primarily proceed through these discourses, but rather through the ways that the narrative makes us “see” a spectacle with eyes other than our real, physical ones. Laura Slatkin’s analysis of “Tragic Visualizing in the Iliad” starts from the verbal form ἐνόησε, “he noticed”, showing how the narrative incorporates visual perception into the whole mental process. It is this process of seeing that creates the dynamics of battle and gives the Iliad a tragic tone.19 A Jenny S. Clay’s 2011 book demonstrates this well, first on a general plane in the chapter called “The sighted Muse”, and then more specifically in her analysis of “Envisioning Troy” from Iliad 12 to 17. In the third and last chapter, "Homer’s Trojan Theater", Clay studies spatial forms and paths and memory in a very interesting manner, showing the hodological nature, that is the specific pathways, of cognitive mapping in Homer.20 For my part, I shall develop an understanding of the main devices that the narrative of the Iliad uses to enable us to see this theatre, from Achilles’ anger in Book 1 to Achilles and Priam seeing each other in Book 24, feeling an increasing tension close to that of tragedy as the plot develops. I do not wish to ignore the ongoing discussions on the unity of the Iliad and the stratification of the text,21 however I consider it a legitimate method to study the Homeric text as it was transmitted through centuries, from a literary point of view.22

18 On the link between θεάτρον, the verb θεάομαι and the noun θαῦμα, see Chantraine 2009, 408–9, s. v. θέα “vue, spectacle, contemplation”. Θεάτρον does not actually appear in Greek before the Classical period (LSJ9 referring to Hdt., Th., Lys.). 19 Slatkin 2007, 19–20, esp. 19: “[I] hope to suggest how the characters’ lines of vision, in the various directions they take, may offer additional perspective on the Iliad’s stringent and subtle intimations of tragedy”; and 20: “An elaborated instance of this, decisive for the poem’s plot, is Achilles’ sighting – enoēse – of the wounded Machaon, which prompts him to send Patroclus to the ships of the Achaeans”. See also Hesk 2013. 20 Clay 2011, 96–119. 21 See particularly West 2011 and the general problematics of Andersen and Haug 2012. 22 See, for instance, de Jong 2004.

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It is well known that in the Republic Plato rejects the dialogue between Chryses and Agamemnon in the beginning of the Iliad because of its quality of mimesis, which might let the audience believe they are in the presence of Chryses and Agamemnon themselves rather than being in the presence of a narrator.23 However, I intend to show that enargeia, “the process of bringing the subject matter vividly before the eyes” (Webb 1997), does not rely on dialogue alone in the Iliad.24 The Homeric narrator lets us see a spectacle, and especially war as a spectacle, through means other than dialogue, beginning with Achilles’ mēnis, which the proem states is the very subject of the epos.25 The whole of the Iliad depicts different conflict situations through the use of various devices. The war between Achaeans and Trojans is the backdrop to this theatre, but the internal conflict in the camp of the Achaeans between Achilles and Agamemnon is the actual departure point of the narrative.26 I will follow the thread of the various scenes the narrator allows us to “see”, referring to Purves 2010 and Allen-Hornblower 2016 to analyse the general notions of vision, watching, and the spectacular more accurately.

Achilles’ Anger The word mēnis, used in the proem, expresses an unusual kind of anger, with a sacred, religious aspect, linking it to Apollo’s anger at verses 9–12. It might also call attention to the fact that Apollo and Achilles are ritual antagonists.27 Let us note some visual details of the narrative. Achilles’ anger is characterised by his gestures, his eyes, and the insults he hurls towards Agamemnon: Τὸν δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπόδρα ἰδὼν προσέϕη πόδας ὠκὺς ᾽Αχιλλεύς· ὤ μοι ἀναιδείην ἐπιειμένε κερδαλεόϕρον (Il. 1.148–49) Then looking darkly at him Achilleus of the swift feet spoke O wrapped in shamelessness, with your mind always on profit.28

23 Plat. Rsp. 392e–393b. On Plato and Mimesis, see Halliwell 2002 who analyses in depth the evolution of Plato on this question from Book 3 to 10 of the Republic. 24 On the concept of enargeia in Greek theoretical thought see mainly Webb 1997, 2009, Lévy and Pernot 1997, Dubel 1997, Plett 2012. On enargeia in Homer, see Clay 2011. 25 Homeric Greek distinguishes several kinds of anger; the ordinary one is referred to most often with the words χόλος and κότος, whereas the word μῆνις refers to a divine anger (see Muellner 1996). On anger among Greek expressions of emotions, see Cairns 2003, Most 2003, Konstan 2006. On anger and language, see Walsh 2005, with an analysis of χόλος and κότος. 26 Allan and Cairns 2011 show the importance of the clash of individual interests with those of the community. 27 See Nagy 1979, 289–95, and on the mirror-effect between Achilles and Apollo, Austin 1999. 28 All translations of the Iliad are taken from Lattimore 1951 except where specified.

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οἰνοβαρές, κυνὸς ὄμματ’ ἔχων, κραδίην δ’ ἐλάϕοιο (Il. 1.225) You wine sack, with a dog’s eyes, with a deer’s heart. δημοβόρος βασιλεὺς ἐπεὶ οὐτιδανοῖσιν ἀνάσσεις· (Il. 1.231) King who feed on your people, since you rule nonentities. ἕλκετο δ’ ἐκ κολεοῖο μέγα ξίϕος, […] (Il. 1.194) and was drawing from its scabbard the great sword […] ἂψ δ’ ἐς κουλεὸν ὦσε μέγα ξίϕος, […] (Il. 1.220) and thrust the great blade back into the scabbard […]

As Erving Goffman defines it, referring to Georg Simmel’s “ideal sphere”, insulting somebody aims to destroy their face, which means both their self-confidence and the image presented by that self to other people.29 I do not consider it an exaggeration to apply this concept to Achilles trying to verbally destroy Agamemnon’s honour, which seems to be equivalent to the Homeric word αἰδώς. Despite the differences between the approaches of Goffman and Cairns, I think that the repetition of honour in the extract from Simmel’s text that Goffman quotes is indicative of similarities.30 In the short list of Achilles’ insults in this passage, it may be noted how often the insulted person is assimilated to an animal.31 Other passages likening a male warrior to a woman could lead one to conclude that the insults aim to diminish the human individual further down in an imaginary anthropological scale that ascends from animal at the bottom to male hero at the top. Language appears as a method of fighting, as the narrator says at Il. 1.304 and as Diomedes states at Il. 9.32–33.32 Furthermore, I suggest that insulting the adversary (be it the enemy or a rival from the same side) might, in Homeric battle, be part of a ritualistic sequence consisting of a challenge, an act of fighting, and a solemn proclamation of victory.33 In the case of Achilles and Agamemnon, there will be no physical 29 “[This] sphere cannot be penetrated, unless the personality value of the individual is thereby destroyed. A sphere of this sort is placed around man by his honor. Language poignantly designates an insult to one’s honor as ‘coming too close;’ the radius of this sphere marks, as it were, the distance whose trespassing by another person insults one’s honor.” (Goffman 2005, 62–63). 30 On αἰδώς in Homer and thereafter, see Cairns 1993. 31 Here particularly dog and deer / fawn. 32 Both passages quoted by Barker 2009, 61–2. The quasi-formula of 1.304 μαχεσσαμένω ἐπέεσσιν is particularly striking. Diomedes’ maxim invoking θέμις gives Barker his subtitle: “It’s the custom to fight with words”. On insults in Homer, see also Slatkin 1988. 33 Létoublon 1983, 1986. On the importance of insult rituals in general anthropology, see the frequency of the word insult in Philipsen & Carbaugh’s bibliography (1986). On “fighting words” in Homer, see Walsh 2005, Hesk 2006 with reference to some parallel rituals in Anglo– Saxon and Old Norse, known as flyting.

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fighting, but the defeat of the adversary achieved by words is just as impressive as the effect of ritualised fighting among the Achaean camp. In verse 245, Achilles violently throws away the sceptre that he holds (ποτὶ δὲ σκῆπτρον βάλε γαίῃ). This is a strong contrast to his lengthy solemn oath in v. 232–39, in which the symbolic value of the sceptre implies that, although not expressly stated in the text, he must brandish it before taking an oath: the gesture of throwing it away holds even more power in the text on account of the fact that the verses do not mention his taking up and brandishing the sceptre.34 ἀλλ’ ἔκ τοι ἐρέω καὶ ἐπὶ μέγαν ὅρκον ὀμοῦμαι· ναὶ μὰ τόδε σκῆπτρον, τὸ μὲν οὔ ποτε ϕύλλα καὶ ὄζους ϕύσει, ἐπεὶ δὴ πρῶτα τομὴν ἐν ὄρεσσι λέλοιπεν, οὐδ’ ἀναθηλήσει· περὶ γάρ ῥά ἑ χαλκὸς ἔλεψε ϕύλλά τε καὶ ϕλοιόν· νῦν αὖτέ μιν υἷες Ἀχαιῶν ἐν παλάμῃς ϕορέουσι δικασπόλοι, οἵ τε θέμιστας πρὸς Διὸς εἰρύαται· ὃ δέ τοι μέγας ἔσσεται ὅρκος. (Il. 1.233–39) But I will tell you this and swear a great oath upon it: in the name of this sceptre, which never again will bear leaf nor branch, now that it has left behind the cut stump in the mountains, nor shall it ever blossom again, since the bronze blade stripped back and leafage, and now at last the sons of the Achaians carry it in their hands in state when they administer the justice of Zeus. And this shall be a great oath before you.

This contrast strongly dramatises the narrative. The tension induces old Nestor to enter the agon, intervening with his famous “sweeter than honey” words (1.249).35 The narrator of the Iliad may be considered the first spectator of this “theatre”: he sees a spectacle as enacted before the eyes of his mind, and he transposes it as narrative. It is difficult for us now, living in a time of literacy, to understand this visual aspect of the narrative since we usually read the Iliad, instead of hearing it as the original form required.36

34 I am thinking of Alan Boegehold’s title 1999: “When a gesture was expected”. On the sceptre as a symbol of Zeus’ themis and power, see Hammer 2008, 117–18, with references to previous bibliography. 35 Kirk 1985, 78–79. On Nestor’s mediation in this passage, on its failure and on Athena’s intervention, see Barker 2009, 47–50, esp. 48: “The fact that the skeptron – the symbol of the right to speak in public – lies on the ground, moreover, suggests that Nestor’s intervention comes too late. Divine intervention has already moved the conflict on and beyond.” 36 Létoublon 2014a (EAGLL), with bibliographical references.

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It has often been remarked since Antiquity how artificial, sometimes even unbelievable, this spectacle appears, if juxtaposed with the chronology of the war;37 for instance, the Catalogue of Ships in Book 2 would find its right place at the beginning of the war, but seems incongruous in the last year of the war, the chronological frame of the Iliad.38 The same holds true for the episode of Book 3 called the Teichoscopia, where Helen is seen first through the critical eyes of Trojan old men, then depicted as describing for King Priam the main leaders of the Achaeans whom she herself sees at the bottom of the walls.39 At the end of her speech, Helen expresses astonishment for not seeing her brothers Castor and Polydeuces. The absence of the Dioscouroi might be explained as a clumsy attempt to make this episode agree with the chosen moment of the war. Nevertheless, the Homeric enargeia, by holding the audience spellbound by the spectacle, often makes us forget this artificiality. Even though Achilles’ anger begins in Book 1, the audience must wait a long time before seeing him, the Best of the Achaeans, fighting. After his captive Briseis is taken away from him, Achilles stays in isolation, so that we see him still locked up in his loneliness during the visit of the embassy (Book 9). He will not take part in the fighting before Book 19. In this way, the first theatre of war in the West puts on stage a hero who is usually either absent or concealed from sight, a hero for whom the audience must wait for almost 18 books out of the 24. Achilles’ anger provokes his absence from the scene, and thus generates frustration in the imaginary spectator whom the narrative creates. For someone who is awaiting dramatic scenes of epic fighting, Books 2 and 3 of the Iliad appear very disappointing; in Book 2, we hear first of Agamemnon’s torment and his misleading dream, then of an assembly of the Achaeans and the famous catalogue of Achaean ships, followed by a shorter catalogue of Achaean horses, which allows a brief remark on Achilles’ sulking (763–79), and eventually the catalogue of the Trojans and their allies. In Book 3, the poet offers the audience a fight between Paris-Alexander and Menelaus. Although we are far from the violence which will afterwards rage in the Iliad, the theatrical effect is nevertheless very strong. The meeting of the two fighters on the battlefield consists first of a verbal exchange, which turns into a proposal for a pact.40 Thereupon the gods draw Helen onto the walls and the Teichoscopia

37 For the chronology of the Iliad compared to that of the myth of Trojan War, see Létoublon 2011. 38 See Kullmann 2012, with bibliographical references. 39 Kirk 1985, 286–301. See further Tsagalis 2003, who emphasises the process of seeing in the whole sequence. 40 Elmer 2012.

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takes place (discussed above), which could perhaps be seen as a diversion from the combat. The link with the following sequence, the conclusion of the pact, intervenes at line 245. We then have a glance at a sacrifice with prayers. Individual action alternates with collective action, with the vivid juridico-religious vocabulary (3.245 φέρον ὅρκια πιστά, 252 ἵν᾽ ὅρκια πιστὰ τάμητε, 256 φιλότητα καὶ ὅρκια πιστὰ ταμόντες, 269 ὅρκια πιστὰ σύναγον, 286 τιμὴν δ᾽ … ἀποτινέμεν ἥν τιν᾽ ἔοικεν, 288–89 τιμήν … τίνειν, 290 εἵνεκα ποινῆς) insisting on faithfulness to the oaths and on the proper payment to be returned. A collective prayer echoes Agamemnon’s prayer, simultaneously uttered by both armies sitting in circle around their leaders.41 This passage shows an exceptional moment of balance in the war, where the warriors delegate their destiny to their representatives, under the sacred guarantee of the gods. Collective speech, religiously sanctified by prayer and sacrifice, unites both camps, “building community” as Elmer’s title excellently says. This is the moment where the poet of the Iliad shows most clearly the key political theme of the epic: the balance between enemies, symbolised by common prayer and sacrifice, cannot resolve the war situation, but, in a common and solemn decision, the issue is entrusted to single combat, provided that one warrior dies and the other is victorious.42 However, this human solution established by human society cannot be a true solution since it does not please the gods. In a single verse, it is implied that Zeus is not pleased at this prayer,43 but it is Aphrodite who will take Paris away from the battlefield. Book 3 shows a kind of contradiction between a balance in the human theatre of war, which is almost close to peace, and the invisible theatre of the gods, where war and the fall of Troy are the inescapable agenda. The feature that my present discussion is interested in is that of the warriors and their leaders, sitting around the fray like theatre spectators, observing the single combat between Paris and Menelaus. The narrative thus establishes a mediation by “real” spectators between the actual show and the imaginary spectators that we are. In this way, in Book 3 the narrator seems to circumvent the spectacle of war, first by the solemn pact, then by Aphrodite seizing Paris away from the scene. Subsequently, however, we actually meet with many of the fighting scenes that we were expecting.44 Though a superficial impression may be felt

41 For a closer study of this prayer, see Létoublon 2011 b, 293–4 and bibliographical references. 42 Létoublon 1983, Wilson 2002, Elmer 2012. 43 Il. 3.302 ῝Ως ἔϕαν, οὐδ’ ἄρα πώ σϕιν ἐπεκραίαινε Κρονίων. 44 King Priam’s departure after the sacrifice has a symbolic resonance: he does not want to see his son fighting against Menelaus (3.306–7 … ἐπεὶ οὔ πω τλήσομ’ ἐν ὀϕθαλμοῖσιν ὁρᾶσθαι | μαρνάμενον ϕίλον υἱόν …).

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by some members of the audience, dullness is avoided by alternation between contest and scramble on one side, and the great number of deaths45 and aristeia scenes on the other, combined in typical scenes.46 In this way, some purple passages, consisting in aristeiai and single combats, stand out against the general backcloth of isolated fighting.47 These clashes imply a very large number of deaths, and generally the narrator, far from leaving the dead in anonymity, gives their identity (name and patronym), sometimes even providing a short biography. In the case of Simoeisios, Anthemion’s son (Il. 5.478–489), one could almost speak of a funeral elegy.48 Although there are some inconsistencies,49 the catalogues of deaths involve a larger number of individuals than modern human memory can easily master, indicating that oral memory had mastered specific methods of memorising, nowadays forgotten.50

The conquest of the Gate and the space of the fighting It is important to note that, in the war episodes that occupy Books 5 to 15, apart from the Embassy in Book 9 and the spy mission called the Doloneia in Book 10,51 the battlefront moves quickly from the Trojan plain to the inner lines of the Achaean camp at the wall they had built, to the point that the Achaean ships are endangered, threatening their ability to return home. This movement seems to me to be symbolic of the dramatisation of the terrain, just as happens in modern games, for instance in football, when one team is playing primarily on the opponent’s half of the field, it is very likely to win. In our case, the Trojans are about to penetrate the opposing camp. The conquest of their gate then takes on huge strategic importance, which the narrative emphasises in this passage, chosen because of its visual interest, especially in both similes,

45 Variety in this kind of death scene is brought about in particular by the different types of wounds (see Friedrich 2005 with the appendix by Saunders). 46 See Arend 1933, Fenik 1968, Létoublon 1983 and 2003. 47 Diomedes in Book 5 and 6, Hector in Book 11, Idomeneus in Book 13, Sarpedon and Patroclus in Book 16. 48 Létoublon 1999b, 2003. 49 Wilson 2000. 50 Yates 1966, Carruthers 1990, Clay 2011. 51 The Doloneia occurs in the night, which is of course a highly visual element. See Dué and Ebbott 2010, Danek 2012, Bierl 2012, Hesk 2013.

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although good commentators sometimes leave it aside, for example Hainsworth:52 […] οἳ δ’ οὔασι πάντες ἄκουον, ἴθυσαν δ’ ἐπὶ τεῖχος ἀολλέες· οἳ μὲν ἔπειτα κροσσάων ἐπέβαινον ἀκαχμένα δούρατ’ ἔχοντες, ῞Εκτωρ δ’ ἁρπάξας λᾶαν ϕέρεν, ὅς ῥα πυλάων ἑστήκει πρόσθε πρυμνὸς παχύς, αὐτὰρ ὕπερθεν ὀξὺς ἔην· τὸν δ’ οὔ κε δύ’ ἀνέρε δήμου ἀρίστω ῥηϊδίως ἐπ’ ἄμαξαν ἀπ’ οὔδεος ὀχλίσσειαν, οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσ’· ὃ δέ μιν ῥέα πάλλε καὶ οἶος. […] ὣς ῞Εκτωρ ἰθὺς σανίδων ϕέρε λαᾶν ἀείρας, αἵ ῥα πύλας εἴρυντο πύκα στιβαρῶς ἀραρυίας δικλίδας ὑψηλάς· […] ῥῆξε δ’ ἀπ’ ἀμϕοτέρους θαιρούς· πέσε δὲ λίθος εἴσω βριθοσύνῃ, μέγα δ’ ἀμϕὶ πύλαι μύκον, οὐδ’ ἄρ’ ὀχῆες ἐσχεθέτην, σανίδες δὲ διέτμαγεν ἄλλυδις ἄλλη λᾶος ὑπὸ ῥιπῆς· ὃ δ’ ἄρ’ ἔσθορε ϕαίδιμος ῞Εκτωρ νυκτὶ θοῇ ἀτάλαντος ὑπώπια· λάμπε δὲ χαλκῷ σμερδαλέῳ, τὸν ἕεστο περὶ χροΐ, δοιὰ δὲ χερσὶ δοῦρ’ ἔχεν· οὔ κέν τίς μιν ἐρύκακεν ἀντιβολήσας νόσϕι θεῶν ὅτ’ ἐσᾶλτο πύλας· πυρὶ δ’ ὄσσε δεδήει. (Il.12.443–66) […] and they all gave ear to him and steered against the wall in a pack, and at once gripping still their edged spears caught and swarmed up the wall’s projections. Meanwhile Hektor snatched up a stone and stood before the gates and carried it along; it was blunt-massed at the base, but the upper end was sharp; two men, the best in all a community, could not easily hoist it up from the ground to a wagon, of men such as men as now, but he alone lifted and shook it. […] So Hektor lifting the stone carried it straight for the door leaves which filled the gateway ponderously close-fitted together. These were high and twofold […] […] and smashed the hinges at either side, and the stone crashed ponderously in, and the gates groaned deep, and door-bars could not hold, but the leaves were smashed to a wreckage of spliners under the stone’s impact. The glorious Hektor burst in with dark face like sudden night, but he shone with the ghastly glitter of bronze that girded his skin, and carried two spears in his hands. No one could have stood up against him, and stopped him, except the gods, when he burst in the gates; and his eyes flashed fire.

52 On this passage, I disagree with Hainsworth (1993, 363) who thinks that “the thread of the narrative is not easily followed”.

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The role of Homeric similes in this passage is striking: far from moving the narrative away from us, they play a large part in its dramatisation. While the first simile emphasises the weight of the huge stone Hector lifts without trouble, since for him it is as light as a fleece,53 the next simile assimilates Hector to the speed of night (νυκτὶ θοῇ ἀτάλαντος ὑπώπια· λάμπε δὲ χαλκῷ), showing him in a chiaroscuro à la Rembrandt which also seems very spectacular. The similes strongly contribute to making us spectators of this conquest of the Achaean camp by the best of the Trojans.

Figuring the spectators “Real” Spectators The narrator sometimes visually notes the interest of the audience in the spectacle through the eyes of “real” spectators,54 as we have seen above in Book 3. I quote a passage from Book 7 where Athena and Apollo are depicted as spectators in the appearance of birds observing the fight from a high oak tree:55 κὰδ δ’ ἄρ’ Ἀθηναίη τε καὶ ἀργυρότοξος Ἀπόλλων ἑζέσθην ὄρνισιν ἐοικότες αἰγυπιοῖσι ϕηγῷ ἐϕ’ ὑψηλῇ πατρὸς Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο ἀνδράσι τερπόμενοι· (Il. 7.58–62) and Athene and the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, assuming the likenesses of birds, of vultures, settled aloft the great oak tree of their father, Zeus of the aegis, taking their ease [and watching] these men

They are not just any kind of birds, but birds of prey (αἰγυπιοί) who rejoice (τερπόμενοι) seeing men fighting. I note that Athena and Apollo are not usually on the same side in the war, but, exceptionally, they sit together here for the same pleasant spectacle.56 Of course, the Games organised by Achilles in hon-

53 On the extended simile comparing the huge stone to a light fleece, see Scott 1974, 49 and 112. 54 On spectators in the Iliad, see particularly Purves 2010, Myers 2011, 59–90 “Epic Experienced as Spectacle”, Lovatt 2013, Allen-Hornblower 2016. 55 “Presumably that [oak tree] of 22,” says Kirk (1990, 239), who asks whether the gods are compared to vultures or have taken their form. He does not remark that Athene and Apollo do not appear friendly sitting together elsewhere in the Iliad, since they support enemy camps. On Apollo and Athena as an “internal audience” in this passage, see Myers 2011, 95. 56 Johansson 2012, 83–88 and 246.

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our of Patroclus in Book 23 are a lengthy example of real spectators put on stage.

Imaginary Spectators The poet sometimes creates imaginary spectators by using such linguistic features addressing them in the second person and using the optative mood with the particle κε: ϕαίης κ’ ἀκμῆτας καὶ ἀτειρέας ἀλλήλοισιν ἄντεσθ’ ἐν πολέμῳ, ὡς ἐσσυμένως ἐμάχοντο. (Il. 15.697–98) You would say that they faced each other unbruised, unwearied in the fighting, from the speed in which they went for each other.

As Jenny S. Clay (2011, 25) points out, [Longinus] comments on this passage, stating that this linguistic use fuels the imagination of the audience and their implication in the spectacle.57 She also notes that “most often the spectator’s powers of careful observation, especially vision, are emphasized”, quoting Il. 16.638–40 and 4.539–44 and concluding, “indeed, like Athena here, the poet leads his hearers safely by the hand. Thus the passage reveals the intimate link between Muse, poet, and audience.” A similar effect is found at Il. 13.343–44 (μάλα κεν θρασυκάρδιος εἴη | ὃς τότε γηθήσειεν ἰδὼν πόνον οὐδ᾽ ἀκάχοιτο). Long before narratology dealt with Homer, Leaf’s commentary created the term imaginary spectator for this situation.58

Zeus’ Scales Zeus’ scales, mentioned in two passages of the Iliad, may also symbolise the dramatisation of a spectacle. In a passage from Book 8, which is less known than the weighing of Hector’s fate in Book 22, the formula of the scale pan leaning on one side (ῥέπε δ’ αἴσιμον ἦμαρ …) shows who is the loser:59

57 [Longinus] 26.1, see Clay 2011, 24: “[…] the direct address ‘makes the hearer seem to find himself in the middle of dangers’ (ἐν μέσσοις τοῖς κινδύνοις ποιοῦσα τὸν ἀκροατὴν δοκεῖν στρέφεσθαι)”. 58 Allen-Hornblower 2016, 23. 59 On the golden scales of Zeus, Kirk 1990, 303–4, Dietrich 1964.

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καὶ τότε δὴ χρύσεια πατὴρ ἐτίταινε τάλαντα· ἐν δ’ ἐτίθει δύο κῆρε τανηλεγέος θανάτοιο Τρώων θ’ ἱπποδάμων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν χαλκοχιτώνων, ἕλκε δὲ μέσσα λαβών· ῥέπε δ’ αἴσιμον ἦμαρ Ἀχαιῶν. (Il. 8.69–72) Then the father balanced his golden scales, and in them he set two fateful portion of death, which lays men prostrate, for Trojans, breakers of horses, and bronze-armoured Achaians, and balanced it by the middle. The Achaians’ death-day was heaviest.

The spectacular aspect of the passage lies in the dynamics of the scale pan expressed by the verb ῥέπε, which is clearly adapted from the same parallel formula used for Hector’s fate at Il. 22.212: ἕλκε δὲ μέσσα λαβών· ῥέπε δ’ Ἕκτορος αἴσιμον ἦμαρ. and balanced it by the middle; and Hektor’s death-day was heavier.

Without entering into a technical linguistic analysis, I underline the use of the imperfect here, for ἕλκε as well as ῥέπε, in both passages: Zeus’ movement and the scale’s leaning are described in terms of duration rather than as sudden moves (as they would be if expressed by aorists).60

The Poet Addressing the Character The poet sometimes uses the second person to directly address his character. This disruption in the usual pragmatic conventions of a neutral narrative which refers to the characters in the third person61 is particularly striking in Book 16: introducing a list of his recent exploits, the address to Patroclus occurs when this character is about to be fatally injured:62 60 The fact that the object does not exist except in our imagination, as is the case for many other mythological objects, does not impel the imagination to play with it. 61 See the articles republished together under the general title “L’homme dans la langue” (“Man in language”) in Benveniste 1966, 225–257. 62 This device was studied specifically by Yamagata 1989 and by Allen-Hornblower (2012, 3), who recalls the discussion on the point of a purely metrical value defended by Milman Parry, as opposed to the emotional value defended by his son, Adam Parry. The subset of the three apostrophes included with speech formulas (16.20, 16.744 and 16.843), and their comparison with the apostrophes addressed to Menelaus are especially interesting. Allen-Hornblower 2016 develops her earlier study further by trying to show that Achilles is the hidden character who addresses Patroclus. De Jong 2009 links those apostrophes to the figure called metalepsis. See also the accurate studies by Dubel 2011, Peigney 2011 and Perceau 2011 in the wake of a collective study of the poet’s voice.

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῎Ενθα τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξας Πατρόκλεις, ὅτε δή σε θεοὶ θάνατον δὲ κάλεσσαν; (Il. 16.692–94) Then who was it you slaughtered first, who was the last one Patroklos, as the gods called you to your death?

In a recent paper, Emily Allen–Hornblower (2012, 3) demonstrates that the series of addresses to Patroclus by the poet corresponds to “new heights in his destructive aristeia that seem at first glance to be incongruous, even at odds with the blatantly pathetic contexts in which the others occur. […] This apostrophe marks a juncture at which a significant step is taken by Patroclus away from the boundaries set by Achilles, and closer to his doom. Each new apostrophe contributes to generate a sense of apprehension in the audience and to gradually build up the tension underlying the entire episode of Patroclus’ glory on the battlefield that will culminate in his death.” The third and last apostrophe to Patroclus introduces his final words and leaves us with the tragic image of the vanquished dying hero and the triumphant victor, whose death we also know is imminent: ὥς πού σε προσέϕη, σοὶ δὲ ϕρένας ἄϕρονι πεῖθε. Τὸν δ’ ὀλιγοδρανέων προσέϕης Πατρόκλεες ἱππεῦ· (Il. 16.842–43) In some such manner he spoke to you, and persuaded the fool’s heart in you. And now, dying, you answered him, o rider Patroklos.

Note that the use of the second person verb προσέϕης, remarked upon by Allen-Hornblower, is indicated by the accusative pronoun σε, σοὶ, in the former verse, emphasising the tragic face-to-face dialogue.63 In those passages, the poet’s audience is strikingly confronted with the character who is addressed in the second person, which is a powerful device for dramatising the narrative. Once again, this device is not visual, strictly speaking, but it strongly contributes to retaining the interest of the audience. It could perhaps be compared to the film device through which a character detaches himself from the screen to enter a place as part of the audience.64

63 The same formula occurs for Patroclus’ and Hector’s death, but never anywhere else: ψυχὴ δ’ ἐκ ῥεθέων πταμένη ῎Αϊδος δὲ βεβήκει | ὃν πότμον γοόωσα λιποῦσ’ ἀνδροτῆτα καὶ ἥβην (Il. 16.856–57 = 22.362–63); cf. Létoublon 2001. 64 See, for instance, The Purple Rose of Cairo by Woody Allen (1985). The comparison is explicitly developed in de Jong 2009.

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Duel and challenge The large-scale composition of the Iliad 65 necessitates that the major heroes be kept away from death in preparation for the major clashes in the last part. The single combats do not always lead to an actual victory with a dead or dying enemy until the combat between Hector and Patroclus in Book 16. The death of Patroclus is followed by those of several Trojans, which Achilles kills in revenge, and eventually by the great duel between Achilles and Hector in Book 22, the tragic node of the Iliad, as we shall see later. The dramatisation of these individual combats is characterised by several speeches, often very long, which seem unrealistic in the situation. However, these are typical scenes with common features. These typical scenes generally entail a genealogical report,66 which aims to justify a pretention to victory, and a challenge sometimes combined with insults. Certain challenges are not expressed through direct discourse, but through indirect discourse, using the verb prokalizeto, prokalissato. In both cases, as I have shown elsewhere, this is a verbal ritual, through which the fighters aim to ensure their supremacy.67 The combat will thereafter prove the masculine values indicated in the oral challenge, and the narrative shows this succession of events and speeches as a dramatised spectacle: Αἰνείας δ’ ἀπόρουσε σὺν ἀσπίδι δουρί τε μακρῷ δείσας μή πώς οἱ ἐρυσαίατο νεκρὸν Ἀχαιοί. ἀμϕὶ δ’ ἄρ’ αὐτῷ βαῖνε λέων ὣς ἀλκὶ πεποιθώς, πρόσθε δέ οἱ δόρυ τ’ ἔσχε καὶ ἀσπίδα πάντοσ’ ἐΐσην, τὸν κτάμεναι μεμαὼς ὅς τις τοῦ γ’ ἀντίος ἔλθοι σμερδαλέα ἰάχων· ὃ δὲ χερμάδιον λάβε χειρὶ Τυδεΐδης μέγα ἔργον ὃ οὐ δύο γ’ ἄνδρε ϕέροιεν, οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσ’· ὃ δέ μιν ῥέα πάλλε καὶ οἶος. τῷ βάλεν Αἰνείαο κατ’ ἰσχίον ἔνθά τε μηρὸς ἰσχίῳ ἐνστρέϕεται, κοτύλην δέ τέ μιν καλέουσι· θλάσσε δέ οἱ κοτύλην, πρὸς δ’ ἄμϕω ῥῆξε τένοντε. (Il. 5.297–307) But Aineias sprang to the ground with shield and with long spear, for fear that somehow the Achaians might haul off the body, and like a lion in the pride of his strength stood over him holding before him the perfect circle of his shield and the spear and raging to cut down any man who might come to face him, crying a terrible cry. But Tydeus’ son in his hand caught

65 Sheppard 1922, Reinhardt 1961, Taplin 1992, Stanley 1993, Létoublon 2001. 66 The longest genealogical report is given by Aeneas in combat with Achilles (Iliad 20.213– 241). 67 See Létoublon 1983. Cf. Camerotto 2010.

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up a stone, a huge thing which no two men could carry such as men are now, but by himself he lightly hefted it. He threw, and caught AIneias in the hip, in the place where the hip-bone turns inside the thigh, the place men call the cup-socket. It smashed the cup-socket and broke the tendons both sides of it.

Note in this episode of the fight between Aeneas and Diomedes several visual details: the movements (ἀπόρουσε, βαῖνε etc.), the specific details of Aeneas’ arms, shield and spear (σὺν ἀσπίδι δουρί τε μακρῷ), the lion simile of 298–301, and the noisy manifestations of anger (σμερδαλέα ἰάχων). The brutal rhythmic interruption at Il. 5.301 may express the spectators’ (and Aeneas’) surprise at seeing Diomedes’ gesture of taking a huge stone and throwing it against his adversary. Although Kirk, after others, points out several similarities to Book 17,68 this passage can also be considered original on account of the weapon used by Diomedes, the wound it inflicts,69 and the interest that the anatomical word κοτύλη invites. Let us also notice some visual details of the single fight between Ajax and Hector in Book 7. After the description of Ajax’s extraordinary shield made by Tychios (220–23) and the usual exchange of speeches (225–43), we eventually watch the fight itself (244–72):70 Hector throws his spear and pierces six of Ajax’s seven shield layers71 without wounding him. Ajax then throws his spear, which only brushes Hector’s shield and breastplate since he has bent aside to avoid a mortal blow. Each of them recovers his spear and runs against the other. Using a simile, the narrative depicts them as two lions or two boars. Hector’s spear touches Ajax’s shield, but its bronze peak twists, so Ajax uses his own spear to touch Hector’s aspis and wound him at the neck. Hector steps backwards, picks up a stone and throws it against Ajax’s sakos. Ajax throws a still larger stone, which causes Hector to tumble. Apollo lifts him up, and the heralds Talthybios and Idaios come to interrupt the fight because night is falling; this seems to be a way of proclaiming that they are fighters of equal value, instead of one combatant making the usual victorious discourse already mentioned.72

68 Kirk 1990, 91. 69 The formula ἀμϕὶ δὲ ὄσσε κελαινὴ νὺξ ἐκάλυψε at line 310 implies that death is imminent for Aeneas, but the fatal outcome is prevented by his mother, the goddess Aphrodite, who takes him away from the location of the combat. 70 However, the narrative does not allow us to see whether Hector is fighting from a chariot or on foot (Kirk 1990, 267–68). 71 Here we understand the usefulness of the former shield description. 72 See however Kirk 1990, 271: “The surprise is the greater since Ajax is apparently winning, having suffered no real damage from his opponent”.

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Achilles’ spear as a character The terms of our theme “theatre of war” suggest that individual characters stand out, be they heroes or not, depicted as such on an ongoing basis or not. In the last part of the Iliad however, in addition to the strongly dramatised presence of the heroes, a remarkable object intervenes with the status of a quasi-character: Achilles’ spear, called by the common name ἔγχος (egkhos) but also several times by the derived adjective Pēlias, which then becomes a kind of proper name through the fact that it is used only for this object.73 In the four verses about Patroclus (who does not take the spear) in Book 16, and again in Book 19 when Achilles does take it, I note a word play on the stem pel-. This may be interpreted as an allusion to the name of Peleus, Achilles’ father, who etymologically could be “the man of mood”,74 which could refer in myth to the first human being.75 In a paper published for a conference on “Arms in Antiquity” I tried to follow the route taken by this spear,76 showing its supernatural, if not magical, nature and its individualised status. In this way, Achilles and his spear form a terrifying pair, which may explain why the end of the Iliad does not require dragons and monsters, such as Apollonius of Rhodes uses in the Argonautica, to draw a kind of fascination over the audience. In Iliad 21, Achilles’ spear plays a dramatic role in Lycaon’s episode, remaining thrust into the ground and “eager to satiate with human flesh”, an astonishingly anthropomorphic expression.77 Several words appear here as hapaxes or near hapaxes in Homer: the present infinitive ἄμεναι occurs only in this passage, the adjective ἀνδρομέος four times in the Iliad, twice in the Odyssey, and the association χροὸς … ἀνδρομέοιο in these lines also occurs only once elsewhere (χροὸς ἀνδρομέοιο Il. 17.571). If this phrase is a formula meaning “human flesh”, let us remark that it never occurs elsewhere with a verb meaning “to eat,” even

73 Wathelet 1969, Létoublon 2007, 224. For a proper name applied to a weapon, recall several well-known cases in the mythological tradition (Gungnir, Excalibur, Durandal, etc.) 74 Il. 19.387–91 ἐκ δ’ ἄρα σύριγγος πατρώϊον ἐσπάσατ’ ἔγχος | βριθὺ μέγα στιβαρόν· τὸ μὲν οὐ δύνατ’ ἄλλος Ἀχαιῶν |πάλλειν, ἀλλά μιν οἶος ἐπίστατο πῆλαι Ἀχιλλεύς· | Πηλιάδα μελίην, τὴν πατρὶ ϕίλῳ πόρε Χείρων |Πηλίου ἐκ κορυϕῆς ϕόνον ἔμμεναι ἡρώεσσιν· (the same set of four verses occurs in Book 16 in Patroclus’ arming-scene, but with a negative verb: 16.140 ἔγχος δ᾽ οὐχ ἕλετ᾽ οἶον ἀμύμονος Αἰακίδαο (thereafter, lines 141–44 are word-for-word identical to 19.388–91). 75 In the Bible and in the Koran, God creates man out of clay. See Canteins 1986. 76 Létoublon 2007. 77 Il. 21.69–70 …. ἐγχείη δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὑπὲρ νώτου ἐνὶ γαίῃ | ἔστη ἱεμένη χροὸς ἄμεναι ἀνδρομέοιο. Compare to 21.167–68 … Ἡ δ᾽ ὑπὲρ αὐτοῦ | γαίῃ ἐνεστήρικτο λιλαιομένη χροὸς ἆσαι (where Asteropaios’ spear is eager for flesh, in his fight against Achilleus).

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less with this rare verb ἄμεναι, ἆσαι (respectively, present and aorist infinitive), meaning more or less “to eat one’s fill of something”, which is much stronger than the usual verbs for eating.78 From this analysis, it appears that the words used for the spear appear as quasi-formulas.79

The Chariot race After the climax of Hector’s death in Book 22, one might be surprised to meet in Book 23 a new kind of spectacle, described with great meticulousness: that of the Games offered by Achilles in honour of Patroclus after the relatively short narration of his funeral.80 The important point is, once again, that this episode deals with the verbal representation of a dramatised spectacle, with a sequence of various events intended to fascinate the audience, especially in the case of the chariot race (Il. 23.352–523). This includes the accident Apollo causes to befall Diomedes, the compensation granted by Athena, the loss of a chariot wheel by Eumelos and his fall, and, in particular, the treachery that allows Antilochos to get ahead of Menelaus by causing Menelaus’ chariot to suffer a collision at a very critical turning post. Once more, “real” spectators play the role of mediators between narrative and the audience: Ἀργεῖοι δ’ ἐν ἀγῶνι καθήμενοι εἰσορόωντο ἵππους· τοὶ δὲ πέτοντο κονίοντες πεδίοιο. (Il. 23.448–49) Now the Argives who sat in their assembly were watching the horses, and the horses flew through the dust of the flat land.

Though such changes of tone in the epics may be surprising for our modern minds, they perhaps correspond to a principle of alternation; if we take a unitarian stance on the Iliad, a kind of release of tension is now offered, for the characters as well as the audience, before the gravity of Book 24.

Hector’s Lusis To evoke the climactic feeling of the last book of the Iliad, I shall speak of a dénouement as if we were in a tragedy; the Greek word lusis used by Aristotle acquires a literal meaning in the Iliad (i.e. “release, freeing”) when the Trojan 78 Chantraine 2009, 116–17 (s. v. ἆσαι) and CEG, 1274. See also Létoublon 2015. 79 See also Létoublon 2014b. 80 On the Chariot Race, see Clay 2007, and for a more general account on Greek athletics, Kyle 2007. On this episode of the race as a spectacle, see Myers 2011, 138–141.

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king comes to Achilles’ hut for the purpose of ransoming his son’s corpse. The same word has already occurred in Book 1, when the priest Chryses asks for the release of his daughter Chryseis. When Aristotle chose this word to denote the solution of the crisis at the end of tragedy, opposing it to desis, “tie, knot”, he may well have had the conclusion of the Iliad in mind.81 This implies that the Iliad is constructed as a large-scale tragedy, and that tragic theatre imitated this construction for aesthetic reasons. Dramatic authors are compelled to show characters doing things and uttering words before a more-or-less realistic decor, whereas the Homeric aoidos puts on stage not only diverse settings, from the Achaean camp to the city of Troy with the plain in between, but also the space of the gods, Mount Olympus and sometimes Mount Ida. The poet lets us see invisible and even impossible things such as Achilles’ shield, the work of the artist god Hephaistos.82 Homer also suggests that after Achilles has lent his arms and horses to his friend, the Trojans believe it is Achilles himself who has come back to fight. Further, when Hector is wearing the arms he had removed from Patroclus’ corpse, the suggested dramatic effect is that Achilles, with his new arms, faces an image of himself: the spectacle of another wearing his own arms increases his fury.83 This is the first instance of the mirror we will meet again in the last part of our study.

Seeing each other in a mirror An exceptional simile in Book 24 lets the audience see how the elderly Priam is viewed by Achilles,84 who is struck by a mix of admiration and stupor (θάμβος):85 81 Halliwell 1998, 2002. 82 Vergil will say more explicitly that such a shield made by a god is impossible to describe, inenarrabile dictu; cf. Létoublon 1999a. See also Purves 2010, 46–55 on Achilles’ shield in the perspective of the Eusynoptic Iliad. 83 Whitman 1965, 200–2 (Patroclus plays Achilles’ role, whereas Hector, wearing the same armour, does not). 84 This simile was studied by Fränkel 1921, 95–96, who probably did not find it very interesting and put it aside as a later addition (“Zu den seltsamen, und wie der Inhalt des Gedichts von allem Gewöhnlichen abweichenden Gleichnisse, die für die jüngere Epik bezeichnend sind, gehört auch das von Ω 480. Das plötzliche Auftreten des Priamos im Unterstands Achills wirkt auf die behaglich an abgegessener Tafel Sitzenden ganz gewaltig – Achilleus staunt, es staunen auch die anderen: so ist es, wenn ein rätselhafter Fremder in eines reichen Mannes Haus erscheint, ein Fremder den ἄτη πυκινὴ ergrifft. Was heisst das?”). Then, to answer the question of ἄτη, Fränkel recurs to another passage (16.805) without further explanation. 85 On θάμβος, linked to the aorist participle ταφών and the perfect τέθηπα, see Chantraine 2009, 405–6. –μβ– seems to have an “expressive” origin (cf. θρόμβος, στρόμβος). With these

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τοὺς δ’ ἔλαθ’ εἰσελθὼν Πρίαμος μέγας, ἄγχι δ’ ἄρα στὰς χερσὶν Ἀχιλλῆος λάβε γούνατα καὶ κύσε χεῖρας δεινὰς ἀνδροϕόνους, αἵ οἱ πολέας κτάνον υἷας. ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ἄνδρ’ ἄτη πυκινὴ λάβῃ, ὅς τ’ ἐνὶ πάτρῃ ϕῶτα κατακτείνας ἄλλων ἐξίκετο δῆμον ἀνδρὸς ἐς ἀϕνειοῦ, θάμβος δ’ ἔχει εἰσορόωντας, ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς θάμβησεν ἰδὼν Πρίαμον θεοειδέα· θάμβησαν δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι, ἐς ἀλλήλους δὲ ἴδοντο. (Il. 24.477–84) Tall Priam came in unseen by the other men and stood close beside him and caught the knees of Achilles in his arms, and kissed the hands that were dangerous and manslaughtering and had killed so many of his sons. As when dense disaster closes on one who has murdered a man of his own land, and he comes to the country of others, to a man of substance, and wonder seizes on those who behold him, so Achilleus wondered as he looked on Priam, a godlike man, and the rest of them wondered also, and looked at each other.

Let us use Fränkel’s method of simile analysis, remarking that the notion of θάμβος appears to be central to the simile; first met at line 480 in the image of the “fugitive homicide” (using Heiden’s terms),86 it is found again, twice, in the following verses (θάμβησεν, 481; θάμβησαν 482) concerning the real world. The very strong emotion of θάμβος is thus the element that links the image to reality. In addition, forms of the verb of seeing also connect the image and the real world, although in a less visible way because of the suppletive verbal system of Greek (εἰσορόωντας 481 / ἰδὼν 482, ἴδοντο 483). After this formal remark, I will depend on Heiden’s (1998) brilliant and deep synthesis of the different treatments of this simile,87 an analysis explicating the simile’s different aspects as “analogy, foiling, and allusion”. He critiques certain former scholars who see “dissimilarity as a functional element

expressive sounds, the aspirated consonant and the group –μβ–, it is remarkable that the word occurs three times in three successive verses, each time linked to the idea of seeing: θάμβος … εἰσορόωντας, θάμβησεν ἰδὼν, θάμβησαν … ἴδοντο. 86 Heiden 1998 has seen the significance of Fränkel’s analysis but complains that he did not apply it consistently: “Fränkel perceived that an interplay of polar (absolute or extreme) opposites is a basic constituent of early Greek (especially archaic) thought and feeling … as a consequence thought constantly operated with contrasting foils. But he scarcely applied this insight to Homeric similes, despite his extensive study of them.” See also the “Despised Migrant” in Alden 2012. 87 See his note 1 and his rich bibliography. I call attention specifically to the beginning of Richardson’s comment (1993, 323): “This must be the most dramatic moment of the Iliad, and its character is marked by a simile which is extremely individual”.

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of the simile”, stating that “they do not explore the effects, or potential effects, of an emotional intensification achieved through the particular contrast presented by this simile alone”.88 A first analogy between Priam and the fugitive “could suggest that Priam’s relative innocence makes him equally deserving of the sanctuary that a murderer might expect to receive, or even more so”.89 But there is also an implicit “analogy between the fugitive murderer and the ‘murderous hands of Achilles’” (ibid.): “Here the abjection of a person who has killed only one man, and that in error (ἄτη πυκινὴ, 480), serves as a foil for the power and pride of Achilles” (ibid.). Heiden then mentions the role of allusion to “heroic mythology” in two aspects. First, there is a reference to Peleus as a kindly host of exiles,90 since Priam portrays himself in the image of Achilles’ father, and reminds Achilles of the instructions Peleus gave Achilles at his departure. Secondly, Peleus was also known in mythology as a murderer himself.91 Although this story is not told in Homer, Heiden is right to remark that the simile in the Homeric text may allude to this mythological episode and to other murders attributed to Peleus in [Apollodorus’] narrative.92 Furthermore, Heiden refers to Stanley’s proposal that the simile “be viewed in the context of Priam’s symbolic katabasis”,93 which seems to me less important than the analogies, foils and allusions mentioned above. Among the characters on stage when Priam enters Achilles’ dwelling, the murderer is, of course, Achilles, not the weak old man who suddenly appears before him. However, in the simile it is Priam who is seen (482) as a murderer, so that the real scene strongly contrasts with the imaginary one.94 How could it be said in a more concise manner than this that Achilles sees himself in a mirror? That this is a fantastical vision, which Laura Slatkin calls “Tragic Visualization”? Let us however note that other persons around Achilles apparently see the same vision, since they feel the same stupor (θάμβησαν δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι). This mirroring effect is perhaps the origin of the passage’s “sublimi-

88 Heiden 1998, 2. 89 Heiden 1998, 4. 90 In the Iliad for Phoinix, Epeigeus and Patroclus, the latter two being homicides. 91 Heiden 1998, 5–6 with bibliographical references; the lost epic Alkmaionis told how Peleus and his brother Telamon killed their half-brother Phocos and were sent into exile by their father Aiakos. 92 Heiden 1998, 6, with reference to Slatkin 1991 for the notion of allusion. 93 Heiden 1998, 7. 94 As Heiden also notes, this contrast recalls the similes studied by Porter 1972, with more complexity.

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ty”:95 Priam sees Achilles both as a murderer and as an image of himself, a poor old man grieving for his son and seeking assistance, and Achilles views Priam both as a fugitive homicide and as an image of himself in reference to his own father.96 The density of the simile and its multiple meanings, as Heiden remarks,97 are made possible only through a detour by way of a multi-layered image. A somewhat similar effect is found in the pursuit and flight simile of Iliad 22, which unwinds in two successive stages, first as an animal comparison showing a fawn flying before a dog (Il. 22.189–93), then as a nightmare where the flyer cannot escape the pursuer, but nor can the latter reach the former (Il. 22.199–201):98 ὡς δ’ ἐν ὀνείρῳ οὐ δύναται ϕεύγοντα διώκειν· οὔτ’ ἄρ’ ὃ τὸν δύναται ὑποϕεύγειν οὔθ’ ὃ διώκειν· ὣς ὃ τὸν οὐ δύνατο μάρψαι ποσίν, οὐδ’ ὃς ἀλύξαι. (Il. 22.199–201) As in a dream a man is not able to follow one who runs from him, nor can the runner escape, nor the other pursue him, so he could not run him down in his speed, nor the other get clear.

Both similes seek to describe complex psychological phenomena. The comparison of the flight arises from Hector being unable to distance himself from Achilles, but at the same time it also shows that Achilles is likewise not able

95 [Longinus] quotes another Homeric simile, describing a tempest, rather than this one: “And far as a man with his eyes through the sea-line haze may discern, | on a cliff as he sits and gazes away over the wine-dark deep, | so far at a bound do the loud-neighing steeds of the Deathless leap.” (Iliad 5. 770, trans. A. S. Way [adapted]). [Longinus] comments on the quality of a spectacle seen only in the imagination: “He makes the vastness of the world the measure of their leap. The sublimity is so overpowering as naturally to prompt the exclamation that if the divine steeds were to leap thus twice in succession they would pass beyond the confines of the world”. See the thematic markers of the sublime in Porter 2016, 51–54, and the great ocean, ibid., 360. 96 Alden 2012 studies this passage as an example of the theme of the “Despised Migrant”. 97 “It is hardly to be imagined that these associations could have been accurately recognized, much less interpreted, on a single hearing. Indeed, less acute listeners might not even have been troubled by the simile, while the more acute would have registered different disturbing subtleties and pondered them differently. Discussion here, therefore, does not aim at reproducing a single ideal reading of the passage, or at imputing to the poet techniques for eliciting such a reading. Instead it exposes a range of provocations which the simile offers to its audiences and suggests a range of interpretive responses.” (Heiden 1998, 2) 98 On the whole passage, see the excellent commentary by Richardson 1993, 127. In his famous The Greeks and the Irrational, Dodds quotes this passage as an example of anxiety-dream: “The poet does not ascribe such nightmares to his heroes, but he knows well what they are like, and makes brilliant use of the experience to express frustration.” (Dodds 2004, 106).

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to reach Hector. If it is a dream (ἐν ὀνείρῳ), one cannot know if the poet means that the dream is appearing in Hector’s mind alone or in those of both warriors, a confusion which highly dramatises the situation, making the pursuit indefinite.99 To return to Book 24, the major points are that Homer depicts the terrified surprise of the characters seeing each other through a simile of the imaginary sighting of a fugitive homicide, and that Achilles’ vision of Priam finds a strong echo in Priam’s vision of Achilles. The common point between both comparisons is precisely that through the device of the simile, the poet may describe a mental process without defining the individual whom it specifically concerns. Both similes stand at the highest points of the Iliadic dramatised narrative. Each of them makes us visualise a spectacle that arises in the poet’s mind. He lets us see the world that his characters inhabit as the general backdrop of his theatre, and in some purple passages, especially by means of a simile, he gives us access to another kind of reality, the very mind, or, if Snell’s ideas do not allow us to use this word, the interiority of the characters, their mental world. We do not actually enter Achilles’, Hector’s and Priam’s minds, but the similes give us an analogic image of them.

Bibliography Alden, M. (2012), “The Despised Migrant (Il. 9.648 = 16.59)”, in: Montanari / Rengakos / Tsagalis (2012), 115–131. Allan, W. / D. L. Cairns (2011), “Conflict and Community in the Iliad”, in: N. Fisher / H. van Wees (eds.), Competition in the Ancient World, Swansea, 113–146. Allen-Hornblower, E. (2012), “Revisiting the Apostrophes to Patroclus in Iliad 16”, in: Donum natalicium Digitaliter Confectum Gregorio Nagy Septuagenario a discipulis collegis familiaribus oblatum, http://chs.harvard.edu/CHS/article/display/4606 Allen-Hornblower, E. (2016), From Agent to Spectator. Witnessing the Aftermath in Ancient Greek Epic and Tragedy, Berlin. Andersen, Ø. (1987), “Myth, paradigm and ‘spatial form’ in the Iliad”, in: Bremer / de Jong / Kalff (1987), 1–13.

99 See also the excellent analysis of this simile by Purves 2010, 55–59, esp. 57: “In such a context, the speed of the racers becomes irrelevant, for the two never change their place in relation to one another. The runners, like the scene, are stuck in time. The movement of one cancels out the movement of the other, an effect that is also played out in the structure of the lines through the doubling and redoubling of negatives. As with the ekphrastic scene, the synoptic view of the two warriors circling the walls of Troy, especially when it is telescoped out into the vision of figures whirling around in a circle, is marked by the idea of stillness and the deferment of an endpoint.”

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Andersen, Ø. / D. T. T. Haug (eds.) (2012), Relative Chronology in Early Greek Poetry, Cambridge. Arend, W. (1933), Die typischen Szenen bei Homer, Berlin. Armstrong, J. I. (1958), “The Arming Motif in the Iliad”, in: AJP 79, 337–354. Auerbach, E. (2003), Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, Princeton. Austin, N. J. (1999), “Anger and Disease in Homer’s Iliad”, in: Kazazis / Rengakos (1999), 11–49. Barker, E. T. E. (2009), Entering the Agon. Dissent and Authority in Homer, Historiography and Tragedy, Oxford. Bassett S. E. (2003), The Poetry of Homer, Lanham. Benfey, C. (2005), War and the Iliad. Simone Weil, Rachel Bespaloff, New York. Benveniste, E. (1966), Problèmes de linguistique générale, Paris. Bierl, A. (2012), “Orality, Fluid Textualization and Interweaving Themes. Some Remarks on the Doloneia: Magical Horses from Night to Light and Death to Life”, in: Montanari / Rengakos / Tsagalis (2012), 133–174. Boegehold, A. L. (1999), When a Gesture was Expected. A Selection of Examples from Archaic and Classical Greek Literature, Princeton. Braund, S. / G. Most (eds.) (2004), Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen, Cambridge. Bremer, J. M. / I. J. F. de Jong / J. Kalff (eds.) (1987), Homer: Beyond Oral Poetry, Amsterdam. Bremer, J. M. (1987), “The so-called ‘Götterapparat’ in Iliad XX–XXII”, in: Bremer / de Jong / Kalff (1999), 31–46. Burkert, W. (1992), The Orientalizing Revolution. Near Eastern Influence in the Early Archaic Age, Cambridge Mass. Cairns, D. L. (1993), Aidôs: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature, Oxford. Cairns, D. L. (2003), “Iliadic Anger and the cross-cultural study of emotions”, in: Braund / Most (2004), 11–49. Camerotto, A. (2010), “Il nome e il sangue degli eroi. Dalle parole alle armi nell’epica greca arcaica”, in: A. Camerotto / R. Drusi (eds.), Il nemico necessario. Duelli al sole e duelli in ombra tra le parole e il sangue, Padova, 21–44. Canteins, J. (1986), Le Potier démiurge. Sauver le mythe I, Paris. Carruthers, M. (1990), The Book of Memory. A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, Cambridge. Caswell, C. P. (1990), A Study of Thymos in Early Greek Epic, Leiden (Mnemosyne Suppl. 114). Chantraine, P. (2009), Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots, achevé par J. Taillardat, O. Masson et J.-L. Perpillou, avec en supplément les Chroniques d’étymologie grecque rassemblées par A. Blanc, C. de Lamberterie et J.-L. Perpillou, Paris. Clay, J. S. (2007), “Art, Nature, and the Gods in the Chariot Race of Iliad Ψ”, in: M. PaïziApostolopoulou / A. Rengakos / C. Tsagalis (eds.), Contests and Rewards in the Homeric Epics, Ithaki, 69–75. Clay, J. S. (2011), Homer’s Trojan Theater. Space, Vision, and Memory in the Iliad, Cambridge. Collins, D. (1998), Immortal Armor. The Concept of Alke in Archaic Greek Poetry, Lanham. Crane, G. (1988), Calypso. Backgrounds and Conventions in the Odyssey, Frankfurt am Main. Danek, G (2012), “The Doloneia revisited”, in: Andersen / Haug (2012), 106–121. De Jong, I. J. F. (2004), “Homer”, in: I. de Jong / R. Nünlist / A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature, Leiden, 13–24.

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De Jong, I. J. F. / R. Nünlist (2004b), “From Bird’s Eye View to Close-Up: the Standpoint of the Narrator in the Homeric epics”, in: A. Bierl / A. Schmitt / A. Willi (eds.), Antike Literatur in neuer Deutung. Festschrift für Joachim Latacz anlässlich seines 70. Geburtstages, Munich, 63–83. De Jong, I. J. F. (2009), “Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature”, in: J. Grethlein / A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature, Berlin, 87–115. Dietrich, B. C. (1964), “The Judgment of Zeus”, in: RhM 107, 97–125. Dodds, E. R. (2004), The Greeks and the Irrational, Berkeley. Dubel, S. (1997), “Ekphrasis et enargeia: la description antique comme parcours”, in: Lévy / Pernot (eds.), 249–264. Dué, C. / Ebbott, M. (2010), Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush: A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary, Washington. Dué, C. (2012), “Maneuvers in the Dark of Night: Iliad 10 in the Twenty-First Century”, in: Montanari / Rengakos / Tsagalis (2012), 175–183. Dumézil, G. (1943), Servius et la fortune; essai sur la fonction sociale de Louange et de Blâme et sur les éléments indo-européens du cens romain, Paris. EAGLL: G. Giannakis (ed.) (2014), Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics. Leiden. Edwards, M. W. (1987), “Topos and Transformation in Homer”, in: Bremer / de Jong / Kalff (1987), 47–60. Elmer, D. F. (2012), “Building Community across the Battle-Lines: The Truce in Iliad 3 and 4”, in: J. Wilker (ed.), Maintaining Peace in Archaic and Classical Greece, Mainz, 25–48. Elmer, D. F. (2013), The Poetics of Consent. Collective Decision Making and the Iliad, Baltimore. Fenik, B. (1968), Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad. Studies in the Narrative of Homeric Battle Description, Wiesbaden. Fenik, B. (1978), Homer, Tradition and Invention, Leiden. Foley, J. M. (1997), “Oral Tradition and its Implications”, in: Morris / Powell (1997), 146–173. Fränkel, H. (1997), Die homerischen Gleichnisse, Göttingen. Friedrich, W.-H. (2005), Wounding and Death in the Iliad: Homeric Techniques of Description, London. Genette, G. (1972), Figures III, Paris. Gill, C. (1996), Personality in Greek Epic, Tragedy, and Philosophy. The Self in Dialogue, Oxford. Goffman, E. (2005), Interaction Rituals: Essays in Face to Face Behavior, Chicago. Griffin, J. (1987), “Homer and Excess”, in: Bremer / de Jong / Kalff (1987), 85–104. Hainsworth, J. B. (1993), The Iliad: A Commentary volume III: Books 9–12, Cambridge. Halliwell, S. (1998), Aristotle’s Poetics, London. Halliwell, S. (2002), The Aesthetics of Mimesis: Ancient Texts and Modern Problems, Princeton. Hammer, D. (2002), The Iliad as Politics. The Performance of Political Thought, Norman. Heiden, B. (1998), “The simile of the Fugitive Homicide, Iliad 24.480–4: Analogy, Foiling, and Allusion”, in: AJP 119, 1–10. Hesk, J. (2006), “Homeric Flyting and How to Read it: Performance and Intratext in Iliad 20.83, 109 and 20.178–258”, in: Ramus 35: 4–28. Hesk, J. (2013), “Seeing in the Dark: Kleos, Tragedy and Perception in Iliad 10”, in: H. Lovatt / C. Vout (eds.), Epic Visions. Visuality in Greek and Latin Epic and its Reception, Cambridge, 32–59.

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Johansson, K. (2012), The Birds in the Iliad. Identities, Interactions, and Functions, Göteborg. Karadagli, T. (1981), Fabel und Ainos. Studien zur griechischen Fabel, Königstein. Kazazis, J. N. / A. Rengakos (eds.) (1999), Euphrosyne. Studies in Honor of D. N. Maronitis, Stuttgart. Kirk, G. S. (1985), The Iliad: A Commentary, volume I: Books 1–4, Cambridge. Konstan, D. (2006), The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature, Toronto. Kullmann, W. (2012), “The Relative Chronology of the Homeric Catalogue of Ships and of the Lists of Heroes and Cities within the Catalogue”, in: Andersen / Haug (2012), 210–223. Kyle, D. G. (2007), Sport and Spectacle in the Ancient World, Malden. Lattimore, R. (1951) The Iliad of Homer: Translated with an Introduction, Chicago. Létoublon, F. (1983), “Défi et combat dans l’Iliade”, in: REG 96, 27–48. Létoublon, F. (1985), Il allait pareil à la nuit. Les verbes de mouvement en grec: supplétisme et aspect verbal, Paris. Létoublon, F. (1986), “Comment faire des choses avec des mots grecs”, in: Philosophie du langage et théories linguistiques dans l’Antiquité, Bruxelles, 67–90. Létoublon, F. (1987), “Le messager fidèle”, in: Bremer / de Jong / Kalff (1987), 123–144. Létoublon, F. (1992), “Ce qui n’a plus de nom dans aucune langue”, in: RPh 66, 317–335. Létoublon, F. (1994), “La personne et ses masques”, in: Faits de langue 3, 2–14. Létoublon, F. (1999a), “L’indescriptible bouclier”, in: Kazazis / Rengakos (1999), 211–220. Létoublon, F. (1999b), “Said Over the Dead or ‘Tant de marbre parlant sur tant d’ombre’”, in: Arethusa 28, 1–19. Létoublon, F. (2001), “Iliade XXIV, un chant funèbre”, in: L’information littéraire 53.2, 3–9. Létoublon, F. (2003), “L’art de la formule et de la scène typique dans les scènes de mort de l’Iliade”, in: P. Cavallero / R. P. Buzon / D. Frenkel / A. Nocito (eds.), KORONÍS. Homenaje a Carlos Ronchi March en sus ochenta año, Buenos Aires, 29–56. Létoublon, F. (2007), “La lance en frêne du Pélion et les armes d’Achille”, in: P. Sauzeau / T. van Compernolle (eds.), Les armes dans l’Antiquité. De la technique à l’imaginaire, Montpellier, 215–229. Létoublon, F. (2010), “To See or not to See: Blind People and Blindness in Ancient Greek Myths”, in: M. Christopoulos / E. Karakantza / O. Levaniouk (eds.), Light and Darkness in Greek Myth and Religion, Lanham, 167-180. Létoublon, F. (2011a), “Homer’s Use of Myths”, in: K. Dowden / N. Livingstone (eds.), A Companion to Greek Mythology, Malden, 27–45. Létoublon, F. (2011b), “Speech and Gesture in Ritual. The Rituals of Supplication and Prayer in Homer”, in: A. Chaniotis (ed.), Ritual Dynamics in the Ancient Mediterranean: Agency, Emotion, Gender, Reception, Stuttgart, 291–311. Létoublon, F. (2014a), “Formulaic Language”, in EAGLL s. v. Létoublon, F. (2014b), “Orality and Literacy”, in: EAGLL s. v. Létoublon, F. (2015), “Manger la chair de son ennemi”, in: J. Peigney / B. Lion (eds.), L’imaginaire de l’alimentation humaine en Grèce ancienne, in: Food and History 13.1–3, 15–44. Lévy, C. / L. Pernot (1997) (eds.), Dire l’évidence (philosophie et rhétorique antiques), Paris. Lévy, C. / L. Pernot (1997), “Phryné dévoilée”, in: Lévy / Pernot (1997), 5–12. Lord, A. B. (1991), Epic Singers and Oral Tradition, Ithaca. Lord, A. B. (1995), The Singer Resumes the Tale, Ithaca. Lord, A. B. (2000), The Singer of Tales, Cambridge Mass.

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Montanari, F. / A. Rengakos / C. Tsagalis (eds.) (2012), Homeric Contexts. Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry, Berlin, Most, G. W. (2004), “Anger and Pity in Homer’s Iliad”, in: Braund / Most (2004), 50–75. Moulton, C. (1977), Similes in the Homeric Poems, Göttingen. Morris, I. / B. Powell (1997) (eds.), A New Companion to Homer, Leiden. Muellner, L. (1996), The Anger of Achilles. Menis in Greek Epic, Ithaca. Myers, T. A. (2011). Models of Reception in the Divine Audience of the Iliad. Columbia University. Nagy, G. (1979), The Best of the Achaeans, Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry, Baltimore. Parry, A. (1971), The Collected Papers of Milman Parry, Oxford. Peigney, J. (2011), “La voix de l’aède au chant 16 de l’Iliade et la colère de Patrocle”, in: Raymond (2011), 145–156. Perceau, (2011), “Voix auctoriale et interaction de l’Iliade à l’Odyssée: de l’engagement éthique à la figure d’autorité”, in: Raymond (2011), 33–56. Philippsen, G. / D, Carbaugh, (1986), “A bibliography of Fieldwork in the Ethnography of Communication”, Language in Society 15.3, 387–397. Plett, H. F. (2012), Enargeia in Classical Antiquity and the Early Modern Age. The Aesthetics of Evidence, Leiden. Porter, J. I. (1972), “Violent Juxtaposition in the Similes of the Iliad”, in: CJ 68, 11–21. Porter, J. I. (2016), The Sublime in Antiquity, Cambridge. Purves, A. (2010), Space and Time in Ancient Greek Literature, Cambridge. Raymond, E. (2011) (ed.), Vox poetae. Manifestations auctoriales dans l’épopée gréco-latine, Lyon. Reinhardt, K. (1961), Die Ilias und ihr Dichter, Göttingen. Richardson, N. J. (1987), “The Individuality of Homer’s Language”, in: Bremer / de Jong / Kalff (1987), 165–184. Richardson, N. J. (1993), The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume VI: Books 21–24, Cambridge. Russo, J. (1997), “The Formula”, in: Morris / Powell (1997), 238–260. Schérer, J. (1950), La dramaturgie classique en France, Paris. Scodel, R. (2008), Epic Facework, Swansea. Scott, W. C. (1974), The Oral Nature of the Homeric Simile, Leiden. Sébillotte-Cuchet, V. (2005), “Mourir pour la patrie. La rhétorique patriotique et la violence de guerre: l’exemple de l’Iliade”, in: J.-M. Bertrand (ed.), La violence dans les mondes grec et romain, Paris, 377–394. Shannon, R. S. (1975), The Arms of Achilles and Homeric Compositional Technique, Leiden. Sheppard, J. T. (1922), The Pattern of the Iliad, London. Shorey, P. (2003), Plato: The Republic, Books I–V, Cambridge, Mass. (Orig. publ. 1937). Slatkin, L. (1988), “Les amis mortels. A propos des insultes dans les combats de l’Iliade”, in: L’écrit du temps 19, 119–132. Slatkin, L. (1992), The Power of Thetis. Allusion and Interpretation in the Iliad, Berkeley. Slatkin, L. (2007), “Notes on Tragic Visualization in the Iliad”, in: C. Kraus / S. Goldhill / H. P. Foley / J. Elsner (eds.), Visualizing the Tragic. Drama, Myth, and Ritual in Greek Art and Literature, Oxford, 19–34. Snell, B. (1975), Die Entdeckung des Geistes: Studien zur Entstehung des europäischen Denkens bei den Griechen, Göttingen. Squire, M. (2016), “Introductory Reflections: Making Sense of Ancient Sight”, in: M. Squire (ed.), Sight and the Ancient Senses, London, 1–35.

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Stanley, K. (1993), The Shield of Homer. Narrative Structure of the Iliad, Princeton. Stoevesandt, M. (2005), Feinde, Gegner, Opfer. Zur Darstellung der Troianer in den Kampfszenen der Ilias, Basel. Taplin, O. (1993), Homeric Soundings. The Shaping of the Iliad, Oxford. Tsagalis, C. C. (2003), “Viewing from the walls, viewing Helen: Language and Indeterminacy in the Teichoskopia”, in: EEAth 34, 167–193. Van Wees, H. (1992), Status Warriors. War, Violence and Society in Homer and History, Amsterdam. Van Wees, H. (1996), “Heroes, Knights and Nutters”, in: A. B. Lloyd (ed.), Battle in Antiquity, Swansea, 1–86. Vernant, J.-P. (1982), “La belle mort et le cadavre outragé”, in: C. Gnoli / J.-P. Vernant (eds.), La Mort, les morts dans les sociétés anciennes, Paris, 45–76. Waern, I. (1951), ΓΗΣ ΟΣΤΕΑ. The Kenning in Pre-Christian Greek Poetry, Uppsala. Walsh, T. R. (2005), Fighting Words and Feuding Words. Anger in the Homeric Poems, Lanham. Wathelet, Paul (1969), “Le Pélion, πηλός et Pélée”, in: H. H. Hornung (ed.), Disputationes ad montium vocabula aliorumque nominum significationes pertinentes, Vienna, 511–516. Webb, R. (1997), “Mémoire et imagination: les limites de l’enargeia dans la théorie rhétorique grecque”, in: Lévy / Pernot (1999), 229–248. Webb, R. (2009), Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice, Farnham. West, M. L. (2011), The Making of the Iliad. Inquisition and Analytical Commentary, Oxford. Whitman, C. H. (1965), Homer and the Heroic Tradition, Cambridge Mass. Willcock, M. M. (1983), “Antilochos in the Iliad”, in: Mélanges Edouard Delebecque, Aix-en-Provence, 477–485. Wilson, D. F. (2002), Ransom, Revenge, and Heroic Identity in the Iliad, Cambridge. Wilson, J. (2000), Sense and Nonsense in Homer. A Consideration of the Inconsistencies and Incoherencies in the texts of the Iliad and the Odyssey, Oxford. Winnington-Ingram, R. P. (1985), “The Origins of Tragedy”, in: P. E. Easterling / E. J. Kenney (eds.), The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, Cambridge, 1–6. Yates, F. A. (1966), The Art of Memory, Chicago. Zeitlin, F. I. (2013), “Figure: Ekphrasis”, in: G & R 60, 17–31.

Jonas Grethlein

The Eyes of Odysseus. Gaze, Desire and Control in the Odyssey Upon his arrival in Ithaca, Odysseus first encounters Athena, disguised as a young herdsman. When Odysseus invents a dazzling story about his identity, the goddess is delighted, reveals herself, and praises her favourite hero thus (13.293–99): … οὐκ ἄρ’ ἔμελλες, οὐδ’ ἐν σῇ περ ἐών γαίῃ, λήξειν ἀπατάων μύθων τε κλοπίων, οἵ τοι πεδόθεν φίλοι εἰσίν. ἀλλ’ ἄγε μηκέτι ταῦτα λεγώμεθα, εἰδότες ἄμφω κέρδε’, ἐπεὶ σὺ μέν ἐσσι βροτῶν ὄχ’ ἄριστος ἁπάντων βουλῇ καὶ μύθοισιν, ἐγὼ δ’ ἐν πᾶσι θεοῖσι μήτι τε κλέομαι καὶ κέρδεσιν … … you would not even in your own country give over your ways of deceiving and your thievish tales. They are near to you in your very nature. But come, let us talk no more of this, for you and I both know sharp practice, since you are by far the best of all mortal men for counsel and stories, and I among all the divinities am famous for wit and sharpness …1

Athena is not the only one to appreciate Odysseus’ craft of storytelling. Classicists too have been charmed by his narrative skills and have devoted considerable efforts to elucidating the plays of his witty tongue. As Simon Goldhill noted, “the contemporary critical interest in language itself, in story-telling, in narrative, which delights in the ludic travels of unreliable narrators, jokes, and stories within stories, finds an Ur-text in the Odyssey’s complex structure”.2 Odysseus, however, is also characterized by another organ that, outshone by his tongue, has failed to attract much scholarly attention. Rather appropriately, the protégé of “shiny-eyed” Athena is distinguished not only through his abilities as narrator, but also his eyes.3 When Athena transforms him into an old beggar, she dims his eyes “that have been so handsome” (περικαλλέ’ ἐόντε,

1 Translations of the Odyssey are taken from Lattimore 1965. This article is part of the ERC project ‘Experience and Teleology in Ancient Narrative’ (312321). 2 Goldhill 1996, 180. The literature on story-telling in the Odyssey is vast, see, for example, Goldhill 1991, 1–68; Segal 1994; Olson 1995; Grethlein 2017. 3 Cf. Flaumenhaft 1982, 20. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-003

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13.401).4 In the narrative of Odysseus’ scar, his eyes are called “handsome” again (καλά, 19.417) and among the features that Telemachus has inherited from his father the eyes figure prominently.5 Vision in Homeric poetry has been tackled from various perspectives. Some scholars have explored the visual quality of epic narrative already noticed by ancient critics.6 Egbert Bakker draws on discourse analysis and performance studies to explain the enargeia of Iliad and Odyssey. From a slightly different angle, Elizabeth Minchin argues that epic song capitalizes on visual memory for its presentation. Strauss Clay makes the case that even in the long battlescenes the Iliad forms a coherently visualized narrative. Other scholars have focused more closely on vision as part of the epic’s action.7 R. A. Prier provides a thought-provoking “phenomenology of sight and appearance” based on a lexical analysis.8 More recently, Helen Lovatt, also the co-editor of a volume on “epic visions”, devoted a monograph to the gaze in epic poetry from Homer to Nonnus. Inevitably, given the vast corpus examined, her study is selective. The Odyssey, which Lovatt considers “an exception (or an alternative) to mainstream epic”,9 is among the poems which receive the least attention. However, the gaze in the Odyssey deserves a closer look. As this essay tries to prove, the gaze of the poem’s hero in particular contributes to the meaning of individual scenes and reinforces the dynamics of the plot. First, a word on theory: the concept of the gaze is not unlike a dense, untrimmed bush in which many different animal species thrive. Just as the growth of such a bush does not yield an order, the myriad of approaches to the gaze will drive to despair whoever looks for a unified theory. At the same time, the sprawling landscape of gaze-theory has proven fruitful ground for a large number of studies, not least in the field of Classics.10 My exploration of the Odyssey will concentrate on two particularly prominent aspects of the gaze. Since Mulvey’s pioneering essay on “visual pleasure and narrative cinema”, the link between gazing and desire has been the focus of many studies. To mention just one example from classical scholarship, Jaś Elsner shows how in

4 On the significance of this dimming of Odysseus’ eyes, see Prier 1989, 63. 5 1.208–9 (Athena), 4.149–50 (Menelaus). See also 16.15 and 17.39 where the formula used for Odysseus’ eyes is also applied to Telemachus’. 6 On enargeia in the Homeric scholia, see Rispoli 1984; Nünlist 2009, 194–8. For a new approach from an enactive and embodied perspective, see Grethlein / Huitink 2017 7 In addition to the works listed above, see also Malten 1961, 9–14; Slatkin 2007. 8 Prier 1989. 9 Lovatt 2013, 325. 10 See, for example, Zeitlin 1994; Bartsch 1994, 2006; Goldhill 1994; Elsner 1995, 2007; Fredrick 2002; Zanker 2004; special issue of Helios 40 (2013).

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both paintings and ekphraseis the gaze as an expression of desire contributes to the construction of subjectivity. The second strand of gaze theory which my reading of the Odyssey follows can be traced back to Michel Foucault. In Surveillir et Punir, Foucault analyzes the gaze as part of power relations. The “Panopticon”, in which one person can see all while being invisible himself, illustrates the power of the gaze as a means of control. Desire and subjection will be the two features of the gaze on which my reading of the Odyssey homes in. Far from striving for exhaustiveness, my interpretation singles out passages in which the gaze of Odysseus contributes to the narrative dynamics of the Odyssey. I shall first point out a disruption of the nexus between gaze and desire on Ogygia and Scheria. Besides underscoring Odysseus’ iron will to return home, this disruption gains a special twist from the formulaic diction used for nostos (I). Then I will show that the gaze highlights the increase of Odysseus’ active heroism in the course of the action. On Ithaca, Odysseus’ gaze is part of his empowerment, as it anticipates and accompanies the merciless punishment of the suitors. This inverts the situation in some of the adventures of the apologoi, in which the gaze drives home the fact that Odysseus is exposed to superior powers (II). In a final step, a brief look at archaic vase-painting will suggest that the Odyssey’s clever use of the gaze for narrative purposes forms part of a broader culture which seems to have taken a strong interest in vision (III).

I Gaze, Marvel and Desire In one of the loveliest passages of the Iliad, Hera seduces Zeus in order to distract him from the Trojan War and to grant the Greeks a great victory (14.293b–6): … ἴδε δὲ νεφεληγερέτα Ζεύς. ὡς δ’ ἴδεν, ὥς μιν ἔρος πυκινὰς φρένας ἀμφεκάλυψεν, οἷον ὅτε πρώτιστον ἐμισγέσθην φιλότητι εἰς εὐνὴν φοιτῶντε, φίλους λήθοντε τοκῆας. … And Zeus who gathers the clouds saw her, and when he saw her, desire was a mist about his close heart as much as that time they first went to bed together and lay in love, and their dear parents knew nothing of it. (trans. R. Lattimore)

The sight of Hera directly translates into desire, the strength of which Zeus delicately expresses by comparing it with the lust he felt for his extramarital

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affairs neatly presented in a catalogue. The strong impression that Hera’s appearance makes on Zeus may be reinforced by a talisman she received from Aphrodite, and yet the reworking of formulae describing Zeus’ excitement in a speech by Paris to Helen indicates that the strong link between seeing and desiring somebody holds true also for encounters without magical gear, even of longstanding partners.11 The Odyssey has her hero also lay eyes on gorgeous women, but here the gaze does not trigger desire. The cutting of the link between vision and lust comes to the fore on Ogygia and Scheria. Odysseus admits that Calypso is superior to Penelope “in beauty and stature to look at” (εἶδος ἀκιδνοτέρη μέγεθός τ’ εἰσάντα ἰδέσθαι, 5.217), but nonetheless “the nymph was no longer pleasing to him” (ἐπεὶ οὐκέτι ἥνδανε νύμφη, 5.153). As the “no longer” implies, there was a time when Odysseus was aroused by Calypso, but now his desire is gone. The sight of beauty, even of a goddess, does not fill Odysseus with desire anymore. Calypso bitterly remarks that instead Odysseus “is longing to see | his wife, for whom he is pining all his days here” (ἱμειρόμενός περ ἰδέσθαι | σὴν ἄλοχον, τῆς τ’ αἰὲν ἐέλδεαι ἤματα πάντα, 5.209–10). The uncoupling of gaze and desire is repeated in Odysseus’ encounter with Nausicaa. Here it is even more drastic as the narrator, describing their first meeting, devotes a great deal of space to Odysseus’ gaze at Nausicaa, gesturing to a possible liaison that will not in fact take place. On the shore of Scheria, Odysseus extensively voices his amazement at her beauty (6.160–61). Lacking human comparanda, he first likens Nausicaa to Artemis (6.151–52) and then compares her to the shoot of a palm tree he saw on Delos (6.162–69). Odysseus may be choosing his words carefully to flatter Nausicaa and thereby secure a warm welcome, but Nausicaa’s extraordinary beauty is confirmed by the narrator, who introduces her as “like the immortal goddesses for stature and beauty” (ἀθανάτῃσι φυὴν καὶ εἶδος ὁμοίη, 6.16). Love and even marriage are in the air: Nausicaa is at the right age to find a husband and Odysseus praises the one who gets to marry her as “the most blessed at heart of all” (κεῖνος δ’ αὖ περὶ κῆρι μακάρτατος ἔξοχον ἄλλων, 6.158). Still, the deep impression that Nausicaa’s appearance makes on Odysseus fails to trigger his desire. An affair

11 3.441: ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ φιλότητι τραπείομεν εὐνηθέντε – 14.314: νῶι δ’ ἄγ’ ἐν φιλότητι τραπείομεν εὐνηθέντε; 3.442: οὐ γάρ πώ ποτέ μ’ ὧδέ γ’ ἔρως φρένας ἀμφεκάλυψεν – 14.315: οὐ γάρ πώ ποτέ μ’ ὧδε θεᾶς ἔρος οὐδὲ γυναικός and 14.294: ὡς δ’ ἴδεν, ὥς μιν ἔρος πυκινὰς φρένας ἀμφεκάλυψεν; 3.446=14.328: ὥς σεο νῦν ἔραμαι καί με γλυκὺς ἵμερος αἱρεῖ. Appropriately, while Zeus gives a long list of mistresses, Paris uses as comparandum only his first encounter with Helen. On gaze and sexual desire, see the literature in Steinhart 1995, 63 n. 571, Walker 1992.

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or even marriage remains an alternative, but ultimately unrealized turn of the Odyssey’s plot. Beautiful women are not the only marvels before Odysseus’ eyes on Ogygia and Scheria. Calypso’s residence features rich flora and fauna as well as four fountains: “… and even a god who came into that place | would have admired what he saw, the heart delighted within him” (… ἔνθα κ’ ἔπειτα καὶ ἀθάνατός περ ἐπελθὼν | θηήσαιτο ἰδὼν καὶ τερφθείη φρεσὶν ᾗσιν, 5.73–74). Accordingly, “there the courier Argeïphontes stood and admired it” (ἔνθα στὰς θηεῖτο διάκτορος Ἀργεϊφόντης, 5.75). Odysseus, on the other hand, after several years on Ogygia, no longer has an eye for the beauty of the setting (5.156–58): ἤματα δ’ ἂμ πέτρῃσι καὶ ἠϊόνεσσι καθίζων δάκρυσι καὶ στοναχῇσι καὶ ἄλγεσι θυμὸν ἐρέχθων πόντον ἐπ’ ἀτρύγετον δερκέσκετο δάκρυα λείβων. But all the days he would sit upon the rocks, at the seaside, breaking his heart in tears and lamentation and sorrow, weeping tears as he looked out over the barren water.

While Odysseus seems to have stopped recognizing the idyllic nature of Calypso’s island, he is captured by the marvels that make Scheria a paradise-like place. On his way to the palace of Alcinous, Odysseus is amazed at the city of the Phaeacians: he admires their harbours, ships, meeting places, and high walls (7.43–45); he is particularly struck by the palace of Alcinous with its gold and silver dogs (7.91–94) and the burgeoning orchards (7.112–32): “And there long-suffering great Odysseus stopped still and admired it. | But when his mind was done with all admiration …” (ἔνθα στὰς θηεῖτο πολύτλας δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς. | αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ πάντα ἑῷ θηήσατο θυμῷ, 7.133–34). At the court of Alcinous, Odysseus witnesses a dance performance of adolescents and “gaze[s] at the twinkling of their feet, his heart full of wonder” (μαρμαρυγὰς θηεῖτο ποδῶν, θαύμαζε δὲ θυμῷ, 8.265). He comments on a dance with a ball: “… Wonder takes me as I look on them” (… σέβας μ’ ἔχει εἰσορόωντα, 8.384). The locus amoenus of Ogygia and the wonders of Scheria tie in with the pull that female beauty exerts, and yet Odysseus is not tempted to stay with either Calypso or Nausicaa. What interrupts the nexus between gaze and desire is the idea of nostos.12 Odysseus’ will to return to Ithaca is so strong that it not

12 Not only Calypso, but also the Phaeaceans are among the adventures in which Odysseus’ return is threatened by temptations that would make him stay (Niles 1978; Redfield 1983, 237; Scully 1987; Most 1989, 21–24). While the Lotophages use drugs and the Sirens rely on the power of song, on Ogygia and Scheria the threat comes from female beauty. Circe combines drugs and female beauty, but here the narrator does not stress the role of the gaze.

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only makes him urge his departure, but also undercuts his desire for the beautiful women offered to his eyes. He shares the bed with Calypso “against his will’ (5.155) and does not pursue Nausicaa who does not conceal her attraction to him. It is the pervasive wish to return home that prevents Odysseus from fancying what he has right before his eyes. The failing link between gaze and desire thus throws into relief the motive of nostos which serves as a narrative engine in the Odyssey. More poignantly, the formulaic diction for nostos suggests that the chain of gaze and desire is not so much interrupted as it is inverted. In the Odyssey, nostos is made the object of seeing. There are three occurrences of the formula νόστιμον ἦμαρ ἰδέσθαι (3.233; 5.220; 8.466) modified to νόστιμον ἦμαρ ἴδηαι in a fourth passage (6.311).13 While this formula draws on a metaphorical use of “seeing”, the phrases φίλους τ’ ἰδέειν καὶ ἱκέσθαι (4.475; 5.41; 114; 9.532) and ἄλοχον τ’ ἰδέειν καὶ πατρίδ’ ἱκέσθαι (8.410) employ a literal visual experience to refer to the homecoming. “Seeing the wife” also paraphrases nostos in 11.161–62 (οὐδέ πω ἦλθες | εἰς Ἰθάκην οὐδ’ εἶδες ἐνὶ μεγάροισι γυναῖκα;). In 7.224–25, property and slaves are mentioned as the objects of his seeing that signify a return: “… and let life leave me when I have once more | seen my property, my serving people, and my great high-roofed house” (… ἰδόντα με καὶ λίποι αἰὼν | κτῆσιν ἐμὴν δμῶάς τε καὶ ὑψερεφὲς μέγα δῶμα). Odysseus “cannot think of any place sweeter on earth to look at” than Ithaca (οὔ τοι ἐγώ γε | ἧς γαίης δύναμαι γλυκερώτερον ἄλλο ἰδέσθαι, 9.27–8). Now, the visual imagery of nostos implies that Odysseus’ gaze does not lead to desire, but that he desires to see: metaphorically “his day of homecoming” and literally his home. The relation between gaze and desire is thereby turned upside down. Through the deployment of visual terms for achieving nostos, the Odyssey redefines the dynamics of gaze and desire for Odysseus. Instead of inviting desire, vision has become the object of desire. The course of the action adds a further irony to the visual semantics of nostos. At the court of Alcinous, Odysseus narrates how, after the departure from Aeolus, “on the tenth day at last appeared the land of our fathers, | and we could see people tending fires” (τῇ δεκάτῃ δ’ ἤδη ἀνεφαίνετο πατρὶς ἄρουρα, | καὶ δὴ πυρπολέοντας ἐλεύσσομεν ἐγγὺς ἐόντας, 10.29–30). Odysseus falls asleep, however, and his companions open the bag of Aeolus, releasing the winds who drive the ships far away from Ithaca. In contradiction to the visual semantics of nostos, seeing Ithaca does not equate to the desired homecoming which is being deferred still further. Even more ironically, when Odysseus, af-

13 Cf. Foley 2005, 37, who compares the nostos to “a beacon towards which heroes may struggle either successfully or unsuccessfully”. See also Bonifazi 2009, 495.

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ter braving the Laestrygones, Scylla, and other trials, finally sets foot on Ithaca, he does not at first recognize the island, for Athena has cast a mist over it (13.187–90). As Goldhill puts it: “The constantly expressed desire to see the fatherland is baulked at the moment of return.”14 The circumstances of Odysseus’ return literally fail the visual imagery for nostos. Norman Bryson notes that “the life of vision is one of endless wanderlust, and in its carnal form the eye is nothing but desire”.15 In the case of Odysseus, however, the desire that the sight of gorgeous women in marvelous places arouses has been blocked by his desire to “see the day of homecoming”. This play on the semantics of the gaze, transforming it from the cause of desire into its object, highlights Odysseus’ iron will to return to Ithaca. After inverting the link between vision and desire, the visual imagery in expressions for Odysseus’ nostos is itself undercut when Odysseus actually arrives on Ithaca.

II Seeing, Control and Subjection Book 19 contains a brief, but impressive ekphrasis of a brooch which the disguised Odysseus describes to Penelope as proof that he has actually met her husband (19.228–31): ἐν προτέροισι πόδεσσι κύων ἔχε ποικίλον ἐλλόν, ἀσπαίροντα λάων· τὸ δὲ θαυμάζεσκον ἅπαντες, ὡς οἱ χρύσεοι ἐόντες ὁ μὲν λάε νεβρὸν ἀπάγχων, αὐτὰρ ὁ ἐκφυγέειν μεμαὼς ἤσπαιρε πόδεσσι. A hound held in his forepaws a dappled fawn, gazing at it as it struggled; and all admired it, how, though they were golden, it gazed at the fawn and strangled it and the fawn struggled with his feet as he tried to escape him.

Λάω, here rendered as “gazing at”, has also been claimed to signify “to grip” or “to bark”.16 There are, however, no parallels for these meanings and the etymological arguments put forward are less than compelling. The only other

14 Goldhill 1988, 11. Odysseus’ failure to identify Ithaca contrasts ironically with the arrival of Agamemnon, who “saw his country with delight” (ἐπεὶ ἀσπασίως ἴδε γαῖαν, 4.523), but is then murdered. On the features of Ithaca seen by Odysseus upon his arrival that evoke his previous adventures, see Segal 1994, 51. 15 Bryson 1984, 209. 16 See, e.g., Lorimer 1950, 511–13 for “to grip” and Leumann 1950, 233–34 for “to bark”. For the translation “to gaze at”, see Prévot 1935, 251 and Prier 1980 who also lists further literature.

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occurrence of the verb is found in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes where it refers to the glare of an eagle (360: αἰετὸς ὀξὺ λάων ἐσκέψατο). The likely etymological relation to such words as ἀλαός and ἀλαόω confirms this meaning and supports the translation of λάω in Od. 19.229–30 as “gazing at”. There are thus two distinct acts of seeing in Odysseus’ description: that of the spectators looking at the brooch and that of the hound fixing its eyes upon the fawn. While the framing gaze of the onlookers is carried by admiration not unlike some of the instances discussed in the previous section, the gaze of the hound accompanies the strangling of the fawn – it is an act of subjection and control. This trait of the gaze is underscored through the direct juxtaposition of the agent’s act of seeing with the victim’s struggle: ἀσπαίροντα λάων. The juxtaposition that has prompted scholars to opt for a lexical petitio principii of “to grip” for λάω only highlights the aggressive notion of the gaze. It has been pointed out that the ekphrasis of the brooch foreshadows Odysseus’ killing of the suitors.17 While the latter are compared to fawns (4.335–9; 17.126–30), Odysseus is sometimes compared to hounds in similes and encounters in Argos a canine counterpart.18 In this section, I shall argue that the subjecting gaze exhibited on the brooch also features in Odysseus’ adventures, notably in his revenge on the suitors,19 but also in his earlier trials. The gaze as carrier of aggression, we will see, highlights the dichotomy of active and passive heroism and underlines the trajectory of the Odyssey’s plot. On Ithaca, Odysseus uses his eyes both to survey the scene, thereby exerting control, and to transfix his opponents before he kills them. Both kinds of viewing already occur before the slaughter of the suitors commences. When night comes in Book 18, Odysseus offers to take care of the torches and commands the female servants to go home in a rather surprisingly authoritative tone that, while clashing with his adopted role as beggar, intimates his hidden identity as master of the house (18.313–19). Melantho, the mistress of Eurymachus, harshly puts the beggar in his place.20 Telling him to sleep out in the open, she wonders whether he is drunk or carried away by his victory over Irus

17 Rose 1979, 224. For a very different reading of the description, see Felson-Rubin 1994, 58 for whom “the scene on the clasp suggests an erotic chase, perhaps even the first capture of Penelope by Odysseus”. 18 On Odysseus and hounds, see Rose 1979. On the similarities between Argus and Odysseus, see Goldhill 1988, 17; Rose 1979, 223; Segal 1994, 56–57. Richardson 1975, 80 argues that Antisthenes’ Περὶ τοῦ κυνός featured a comparison of the dog with Odysseus. 19 For a much shorter and more narrow treatment of the assaultive gaze in the Odyssey, see Lovatt 2013, 325–27. 20 On Melantho, see e.g. Levine 1987; Katz 1991, 130–31; Felson-Rubin 1994, 56.

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(18.327–36). However, Odysseus manages to intimidate her. While the female servants leave the megaron, he stays (18.343–45): αὐτὰρ ὁ πὰρ λαμπτῆρσι φαείνων αἰθομένοισιν ἑστήκειν ἐς πάντας ὁρώμενος· ἄλλα δέ οἱ κῆρ ὥρμαινε φρεσὶν ᾗσιν, ἅ ῥ’ οὐκ ἀτέλεστα γένοντο. He then took his place by the burning cressets, and kept them lighted, looking at them all himself, but the heart within him was pondering other thoughts, which were not to go unaccomplished.

Austin notes that “Odysseus gathers to himself the formulae that are the property of the sun” and argues that “we glimpse a mortal no longer in conflict with his ancient enemy, but incarnating now Helios ὃς πάντ’ ἐφορᾶι καὶ πάντ’ ἐπακούει”.21 Even one who is hesitant to adopt such a far-reaching interpretation cannot help noting that the light prefigures the bright light which Athena will create around Odysseus in 19.34–40, heralding his impending victory.22 In conjunction with the light and his thoughts, Odysseus’ silent gaze at the suitors anticipates the control which he will gain over them as well as his house very soon. The suitors who harass the beggar as they please have become the object of his gaze. What is more, they are entirely unaware of being looked at. In their sleep, the suitors are helplessly exposed to the eyes of the true master of the house. Here, Odysseus still lets them “see the light of the sun”, but his thoughts are already set on the bloody revenge. While the nightly mustering of the suitors expresses control, Odysseus’ row with Melantho features another form of the gaze, which gains prominence during the enactment of the revenge. Before lashing out against Melantho, Odysseus “looks at her scowlingly” (18.337–39): τὴν δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπόδρα ἰδὼν προσέφη πολύμητις Ὀδυσσεύς· “ἦ τάχα Τηλεμάχῳ ἐρέω, κύον, οἷ’ ἀγορεύεις, κεῖσ’ ἐλθών, ἵνα σ’ αὖθι διὰ μελεϊστὶ τάμῃσιν.” Then, looking at her scowlingly, resourceful Odysseus answered: “I think I will go to Telemachus, you bitch, and tell him how you are talking so that he will cut you to pieces …’

James P. Holoka argues that the formula ὑπόδρα ἰδών, here translated as “looking scowlingly”, in the Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos explained as “looking

21 Austin 1975, 251 n. 6. 22 Russo 1992 ad 18.317–19. See also Bremer 1976, 155 on the significance of the light in this scene.

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out from under brows drawn down in expression of great displeasure, anger”,23 has a marked connotation in Homeric poetry.24 Paying particular attention to the Iliad, he shows that “the speaker, whatever his message, transmits by his facial demeanor that an infraction of propriety has occurred; he deplores the willful traducing of rules of conduct governing relations between superordinates and inferiors”.25 Holoka’s analysis is also valid for the Odyssey, but I wish to suggest that there the formula has a further specific connotation: besides introducing a verbal expression of resentment, it is linked to physical violence. The gaze from below carries aggression that will be acted out – it prepares an assault. There are nine occurrences of ὑπόδρα ἰδών in the Odyssey. In two instances, Odysseus is the object of a hostile gaze which translates seamlessly into an act of violence. Antinoos stares at him scowlingly, reprimands him for speaking in a shameful way and then hits him with a footstool (17.459). Not much later, it is Eurymachus who throws a footstool at Odysseus after looking at him from under his brows and dressing him down (18.388). The seven remaining instances all have Odysseus as subject of the gaze. They concentrate strikingly in Books 18–22, which feature six passages with Odysseus casting an angry look from below at somebody:26 besides Melantho (18.337, 19.70), Irus (18.14); the suitors (22.34); Eurymachus (22.60); Leiodes (22.320). All of them are subsequently eliminated by Odysseus and his men. The aggression inherent in the fierce gaze from below is thus acted out, even if not immediately in all cases. We have to wait until 22.465–77 for the punishment of the treacherous female servants, and the encounter between Odysseus and Irus turns violent only after Antinous and Eurymachus proclaim a fist-fight between the two beggars. In Book 22, however, the link between staring from below and assault becomes tangible. The first instance of ὑπόδρα ἰδών (22.34) follows upon the killing of the first suitor, Antinous, and introduces the speech in which Odysseus reveals his identity to the suitors, who are gripped by “the green fear” (χλωρὸν δέος, 22.42). Eurymachus’ response, imputing all blame to Antinous and asking Odysseus to spare the others, elicits another glare from below, which leads to his death after an exchange of two brief speeches. Not much later, Odysseus rejects the supplication of Leodes (22.320–30):

23 J. N. O’Sullivan s. v. in LfgrE. 24 Holoka 1983. 25 Holoka 1983, 16. Cairns 2003, 44 stresses that the superiority of the speaker may only consist in the act of scolding. 26 The one use of ὑπόδρα ἰδών before the account of Odysseus’ revenge occurs in Book 8 when Odysseus rejects Euryalus’ invective (8.165). Here, the scowling stare does not prepare an act of violence.

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τὸν δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπόδρα ἰδὼν προσέφη πολύμητις Ὀδυσσεύς· “εἰ μὲν δὴ μετὰ τοῖσι θυοσκόος εὔχεαι εἶναι, πολλάκι που μέλλεις ἀρήμεναι ἐν μεγάροισι τηλοῦ ἐμοὶ νόστοιο τέλος γλυκεροῖο γενέσθαι, σοὶ δ’ ἄλοχόν τε φίλην σπέσθαι καὶ τέκνα τεκέσθαι· τῷ οὐκ ἂν θάνατόν γε δυσηλεγέα προφύγοισθα.” ὣς ἄρα φωνήσας ξίφος εἵλετο χειρὶ παχείῃ κείμενον, ὅ ῥ’ Ἀγέλαος ἀποπροέηκε χαμᾶζε κτεινόμενος· τῷ τόν γε κατ’ αὐχένα μέσσον ἔλασσε· φθεγγομένου δ’ ἄρα τοῦ γε κάρη κονίῃσιν ἐμίχθη. Then, looking scowlingly at him, spoke resourceful Odysseus: “If you claim to be the diviner among these people, many a time you must have prayed in my palace, asking that the completion of my sweet homecoming be far off from me, that my dear wife would go off with you and bear you children. So you cannot escape from sorry destruction.” So he spoke, and in his heavy hand took up a sword that was lying there on the ground where Agelaos had dropped it when he was killed. With this he cut through the neck at the middle, and the head of Leodes dropped into the dust while he was still speaking.

The immediate sequence of looking and killing hammers home the significance of the gaze as an act of subjection, which is already encapsulated in the ekphrasis of the brooch. Through ὑπόδρα ἰδών the assaultive capacity of the eye becomes formulaic in the Odyssey. The connection between looking and assault is underlined through the first weapon that Odysseus uses in his revenge, namely the bow. While Odysseus is not associated with the bow in the Iliad, the Odyssey has him not only boast about his skills as archer (8.215–22), but disseminates them narratively. Odysseus makes the bow contest a prelude to his revenge and kills the first suitors with the bow they were unable to string.27 The relevance of the bow to my argument is nicely captured in Odysseus’ description of Heracles in the underworld (11.605–8): ἀμφὶ δέ μιν κλαγγὴ νεκύων ἦν οἰωνῶν ὥς, πάντοσ’ ἀτυζομένων· ὁ δ’ ἐρεμνῇ νυκτὶ ἐοικώς, γυμνὸν τόξον ἔχων καὶ ἐπὶ νευρῆφιν ὀϊστόν, δεινὸν παπταίνων, αἰεὶ βαλέοντι ἐοικώς. All around him was a clamor of the dead as of birds scattering scared in every direction; but he came on, like dark night,

27 On Odysseus’ bow, especially its comparison with a kithara, see Segal 1994, 53–7, 98–100. On its genealogy, see Grethlein 2008, 42–43.

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holding his bow bare with an arrow laid on the bowstring, and looking, as one who is about to shoot, with terrible glances.

παπταίνω signifies the movement of the searching eye before it fixes upon an object and aim,28 but nonetheless Heracles’ terrible glances here seem to translate directly into lethal shots. The only other occurrence of δεινὸν παπταίνων, this time in a speech in the underworld, applies to Odysseus. Explaining to Agamemnon why there is such a flood of new arrivals, Amphimedon recounts the slaughter on Ithaca: “He stood on the threshold and scattered out the swift shafts before him, | glaring terribly, and struck down the king Antinous” (στῆ δ’ ἄρ’ ἐπ’ οὐδὸν ἰών, ταχέας δ’ ἐκχεύατ’ ὀϊστοὺς | δεινὸν παπταίνων, βάλε δ’ Ἀντίνοον βασιλῆα, 24.178–79). The immediate sequence of “glaring terribly” and “striking down” highlights the aggressive notion of the gaze, which prepares the execution of its object. Requiring a sharp eye, the bow is the instrument of the assaultive gaze.29 The aggression of the gaze turns into actual violence when the eye fixes upon the object to be hit by the arrow. Not only do the use of the bow in the contest and the killing of the first suitors spotlight the assaultive nature of the gaze, but this semantics of vision is highlighted by a very different kind of viewing. An anonymous voice mocks the beggar turning the bow in his hands: “This man is one who gazes at bows, a clandestine expert” (ἦ τις θηητὴρ καὶ ἐπίκλοπος ἔπλετο τόξων, 21.397). Indeed, Odysseus “looks the bow all over” (μέγα τόξον ἐβάστασε καὶ ἴδε πάντῃ, 21.405). His eyes, however, do not stop here, but go on to take aim: first, Odysseus “did not miss any axes | from the first handle on, but the bronze-weighted arrow passed through | all and out the other end| (πελέκεων δ’ οὐκ ἤμβροτε πάντων | πρώτης στειλειῆς, διὰ δ’ ἀμπερὲς ἦλθε θύραζε | ἰὸς χαλκοβαρής, 21.421–3), before he turns to Antinous: “… aiming at this man, he struck him in the throat with an arrow, | and clean through the soft part of the neck the point was driven” (τὸν δ’ Ὀδυσεὺς κατὰ λαιμὸν ἐπισχόμενος βάλεν ἰῷ, | ἀντικρὺ δ’ ἁπαλοῖο δι’ αὐχένος ἤλυθ’ ἀκωκή, 22.15–16). Odysseus’ glance at the bow is not that of an ignoble man who is out of his depths, but of a man who has the

28 Cf. Beck 2004, 970: “look searchingly (for, in expectation of) … connot. of motion …, often in single direction (but even then prob. w. eye-motion)”. The two occurrences of παπταίνειν discussed above should suffice to disprove Hainsworth’s sweeping claim that “παπταίνειν is always a symptom of fear” (ad Il. 12.333). 29 As Brooke Holmes points out to me, the prominent visual aspect of archery also renders it ambiguous. The distance which forces the archer to take aim carefully prevents a direct physical encounter and undermines the credentials of the bow as a heroic weapon. The unheroic character of archery, however, comes to the fore not in the Odyssey, but in the Iliad, cf. Il. 11.385–87; 13.713–18. See Farron 2003.

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sharp eye necessary to hit his aim as well as the strength to string the bow. The regard of the connoisseur contrasts effectively with the sharp eye with which Odysseus eliminates the suitors. The mocking of Odysseus as someone “who gazes at bows, a clandestine expert” may be echoed ironically later when another compound form of the κλεπ/κλοπ-stem is used, again in conjunction with a visual term: “Odysseus looked about his own house to see if any | man had stolen away alive, escaping the black destruction” (πάπτηνεν δ’ Ὀδυσεὺς καθ’ ἑὸν δόμον, εἴ τις ἔτ’ ἀνδρῶν | ζωὸς ὑποκλοπέοιτο, ἀλύσκων κῆρα μέλαιναν, 22.381–82). If we investigate this echo, then we could note that clandestinity is now ascribed to the suitors while Odysseus’ gaze at the bow has become the search for those who have survived its work. Admittedly, the echo is weak: the metaphor in ἐπίκλοπος (“hiding one’s true intention”) 30 and ὑποκλοπεῖσθαι (“lurk in hiding”)31 is similar, but the resulting meanings are very different. But even without the echo, Odysseus’ searching glance after the killing of the suitors is noteworthy, as it circles back to his vigil discussed at the beginning of this section. Like in Book 18, Odysseus looks around in what has become “his own house” again. The gaze at the dormant suitors has metamorphosed into a search for whether there are any survivors among the corpses that now fill the house. The control that was implicit earlier in the eye directed at the sleeping suitors has been substantiated; Odysseus’ “thoughts” have been “accomplished”. The gaze expressing control thus frames the assaultive gaze exercised during the revenge. The controlling aspect of Odysseus’ gaze in 22.381–82 is thrown into relief by the use of the same verb in the preceding verse, here applied to Medon and Telemachus, whom Odysseus orders to wait outside while he does the work “he has to do” (ὅττεό με χρή, 22.377): “They sat down both together beside the altar of mighty | Zeus, looking all about them, still thinking they would be murdered” (ἑζέσθην δ’ ἄρα τώ γε Διὸς μεγάλου ποτὶ βωμόν, | πάντοσε παπταίνοντε, φόνον ποτιδεγμένω αἰεί, 22.379–80). Their fearful eyes resemble the look in the suitors’ eyes when the slaughter starts. After “throwing their glances every way all along the well-built walls” (πάντοσε παπταίνοντες ἐϋδμήτους ποτὶ τοίχους, 22.24) and failing to find weapons upon Odysseus’ self-revelation, “the green fear took hold of all of them | and each man looked about him for a way to escape sheer death” (ὣς φάτο, τοὺς δ’ ἄρα πάντας ὑπὸ χλωρὸν δέος εἷλε· | πάπτηνεν δὲ ἕκαστος, ὅπῃ φύγοι αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον, 22.42–43). The use of the same verb underscores the contrast: while Odysseus’ wandering eyes control the scene, the suitors search in a panic for means of defence or flight.

30 Cf. H. W. Nordheider s. v. in LfgrE. 31 O’Sullivan s. v. in LfgrE.

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The aggressive quality of viewing is most prominent in the last third of the Odyssey, but it also surfaces in the apologoi. Here, however, vision does not express Odysseus’ control and the subjection of his opponents, but rather casts him in various ways as the object of violence. At the beginning of the Polyphemus episode, another kind of gaze occurs, for it is the curiosity to see the Cyclops and to discover whether he will give him a guest-gift that prompts Odysseus not to comply with his companions’ wish to leave the cave quickly before its resident returns (9. 228–29). The cave, however, becomes a trap in which they are exposed to the physical superiority of the giant Polyphemus, who turns out to be no adherent to the conventions of hospitality. Intrigued by the pun on metis, scholars have concentrated on how Odysseus outwits the Cyclops by presenting himself as outis.32 For my argument, the blinding of Polyphemus is more relevant. Deprived of his eyesight, Polyphemus is unable to lay hands on the men. That his blindness permits Odysseus and the remaining comrades to escape the fate of those already devoured is highlighted when Polyphemus addresses the ram which, against his habit, is the last to leave the cave: “… Perhaps you are grieving | for your master’s eye, which a bad man with his wicked companions | put out …” (… ἦ σύ γ’ ἄνακτος | ὀφθαλμὸν ποθέεις; τὸν ἀνὴρ κακὸς ἐξαλάωσε | σὺν λυγροῖσ’ ἑτάροισι …, 9.452–54).33 The tardiness of the ram is indeed linked to the blinding, albeit differently from what the Cyclops suspects. It is not grief, but the weight of the “man who put out the eye” that slows down the ram, something the blind Polyphemus cannot notice. Later, when Odysseus taunts Polyphemus from his ship, the Cyclops hurls stones after him which, however, thrown without eyesight, fail to hit their target. Book 9 presents Odysseus not as the subject of a look of aggression, but as its object. Only the blinding of the Cyclops allows Odysseus the escape from his cave. The loss of control effected by Polyphemus’ loss of his eye highlights ex negativo the empowering aspect of the gaze. The semantics of viewing as an act of control or as part of an assault is played out in a different way in the Scylla episode.34 Scholars have been struck by Odysseus’ attempt to attack the monster. Ignoring Circe’s warning that “she is no mortal thing but a mischief immortal, dangerous, | difficult and bloodthirsty, and there is no fighting against her, | nor any defence’ (ἡ δέ τοι οὐ θνητή, ἀλλ’ ἀθάνατον κακόν ἐστι, | δεινόν τ’ ἀργαλέον τε καὶ ἄγριον οὐδὲ μαχητόν· | οὐδέ τις ἔστ’ ἀλκή· φυγέειν κάρτιστον ἀπ’ αὐτῆς, 12.118–20), Odys-

32 See, e.g., Schein 1970; Clay 1983, 119–20; Peradotto 1990, 143–70. 33 That Polyphemus sees Odysseus and his men before the blinding is explicit in 9.251. 34 On Scylla in the Odyssey and beyond, see Hopman 2012.

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seus puts on his armour and takes two spears. This, however, is of no help, as Circe predicted; Scylla snatches away six men. Formulae used in Iliadic arming scenes reinforce the incommensurability of the Odyssey’s adventures with heroic combat in the Iliad and underline Odysseus’ helplessness.35 For my reading, it is noteworthy that Odysseus first fails to catch a glimpse of Scylla. Clad in full armour he goes to the prow and climbs the foredeck (12.230–33): … ἔνθεν γάρ μιν ἐδέγμην πρῶτα φανεῖσθαι Σκύλλην πετραίην, ἥ μοι φέρε πῆμ’ ἑτάροισιν. οὐδέ πῃ ἀθρῆσαι δυνάμην· ἔκαμον δέ μοι ὄσσε πάντῃ παπταίνοντι πρὸς ἠεροειδέα πέτρην. … for I expected Scylla of the rocks to appear first from that direction, she who brought pain to my companions. I could not make her out anywhere, and my eyes grew weary from looking everywhere on the misty face of the sea rock.

Odysseus sees Scylla only when she has already snapped up the six men, “screaming | and reaching out their hands to me in this horrid encounter” (κεκλήγοντας, | χεῖρας ἐμοὶ ὀρέγοντας ἐν αἰνῇ δηϊοτῆτι, 12.256–57). “That”, he adds, “was the most pitiful scene that these eyes have looked on | in my sufferings as I explored the routes over the water” (οἴκτιστον δὴ κεῖνο ἐμοῖσ’ ἴδον ὀφθαλμοῖσι | πάντων, ὅσσ’ ἐμόγησα πόρους ἁλὸς ἐξερεείνων, 12.258–59). The horrid threat of Scylla is underscored not only by the ineffectuality of heroic armour and courage, but also by the fact that she is not seen until she has already attacked. A foe unseen cannot be fought. Paradoxically, the temporary invisibility of the adversary contributes to the qualification of the scene as the most “pitiful that these eyes have looked on”. While Odysseus subdues Polyphemus by depriving him of his eyesight, his helplessness in facing Scylla is highlighted by her withdrawal from eyes that could fix and control her. Odysseus is not blinded by Scylla, but her invisibility before the attack puts Odysseus in a situation of disorientation not dissimilar to the one he inflicted upon Polyphemus. A simile lends weight to Scylla’s nabbing of six companions (12.251–55): ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἐπὶ προβόλῳ ἁλιεὺς περιμήκεϊ ῥάβδῳ ἰχθύσι τοῖς ὀλίγοισι δόλον κατὰ εἴδατα βάλλων ἐς πόντον προΐησι βοὸς κέρας ἀγραύλοιο, ἀσπαίροντα δ’ ἔπειτα λαβὼν ἔρριψε θύραζε, ὣς οἵ γ’ ἀσπαίροντες ἀείροντο προτὶ πέτρας.

35 Cf. Reinhardt 1948, 70 on “jenes Inkommensurable zwischen Märchenwelt und Iliasheldentum” and Whitman 1958, 300.

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And as a fisherman with a very long rod, on a jutting rock, will cast his treacherous bait for the little fishes, and sinks the horn of a field-ranging ox into the water, then hauls them up and throws them on the dry land, gasping and struggling, so they gasped and struggled as they were hoisted up the cliff.

This simile can be read as an elaboration of the much briefer comparison of the Laestrygones throwing stones at Odysseus and his men with men spearing fish (10.124).36 The only other extended fishing simile in the Odyssey occurs in 22.383–89, right after Odysseus’ search for the hiding suitors as discussed above: τοὺς δὲ ἴδεν μάλα πάντας ἐν αἵματι καὶ κονίῃσι πεπτεῶτας πολλούς, ὥς τ’ ἰχθύας, οὕς θ’ ἁλιῆες κοῖλον ἐς αἰγιαλὸν πολιῆς ἔκτοσθε θαλάσσης δικτύῳ ἐξέρυσαν πολυωπῷ· οἱ δέ τε πάντες κύμαθ’ ἁλὸς ποθέοντες ἐπὶ ψαμάθοισι κέχυνται· τῶν μέν τ’ ἠέλιος φαέθων ἐξείλετο θυμόν· ὣς τότ’ ἄρα μνηστῆρες ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισι κέχυντο. He saw them, one and all in their numbers, lying fallen in their blood and in the dust, like fish whom the fishermen have taken in their net with many holes, and dragged out onto the hollow beach from the gray sea, and all of them lie piled on the sand, needing the restless salt water; but Helios, the shining sun, bakes the life out of them. Like these, the suitors now were lying piled on each other.

There are no pointed echoes and while the first simile features a single fisherman harpooning, the fish in the second have been caught by several fishermen with the help of a net. The kinds of similarities between the similes and their contexts are also different: in Book 12, the primary point of comparison is the desperate struggle of fish and men (12.254: ἀσπαίροντα – 12.255: ἀσπαίροντες); in Book 22, image and context are aligned by “all” (22.383: πάντας – 22.386: πάντες), and by “being piled up” (22.387: κέχυνται – 22.389: κέχυντο). And yet, the fact that these are the only two extended fishing similes in the Odyssey may justify a comparison that would highlight the changed situation: Odysseus, who first has to witness his men being harpooned like fish, finally finds himself metaphorically in the role of a fisherman. The prominent function of seeing in both contexts is also reflected in the similes. The little fish are lured

36 See Hopman 2012, 30–31 on the similarity with Patroclus’ aristeia in Il. 16.406–8.

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by baits just as the companions are snatched away by a force they do not see. The second simile explicitly illustrates Odysseus’ gaze. As Bakker notes, “Helios kills the fish by shining, that is, gazing at them.”37 Viewing as an act of aggression and control is exemplified most clearly in the revenge on the suitors, but, as we have just seen, it also surfaces in Odysseus’ earlier adventures. While some episodes, notably the passing of the Sirens, foreground other senses, in the encounters with Polyphemus and Scylla the notion of (not) seeing significantly enriches the presentation of Odysseus’ trials. Before Odysseus can follow up on his own gaze with acts of violence, he has to break the control exerted by the eye of a giant and experience the impossibility of fighting an adversary withdrawing from sight. The gaze thus contributes to the dynamics between active and passive heroism in the Odyssey explored by Cook.38 Cook argues that in archaic Greek poetry heroism is not confined to inflicting pain upon others, but also embraces the ability to endure pain oneself. While the Iliad emphasizes the stance of the active hero, the Odyssey’s hero combines both aspects. When Odysseus is the victim of the assaultive gaze, his passive heroism comes to the fore. Subjecting the suitors to his own gaze, Odysseus becomes an active hero. Of course, the boast of his true identity before Polyphemus as well as his blinding show Odysseus as an active hero, just as his endurance continues to be tested on Ithaca. That being said, the inversion of the assaultive gaze sketched here highlights the larger trajectory of the Odyssey. While the gaze in the apologoi underscores Odysseus’ exposure to forces beyond his control, his own gaze during the revenge marks his return to full agency.39

37 Bakker 2013, 111. 38 Cook 1999. 39 Cf. Grethlein 2017a, 177–79 on this trajectory.

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Fig. 2.1: Attic black-figure eye-cup by the Cambridge Painter, 550–500 BCE, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum: inv. GR. 39.1864. © The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.

Fig. 2.2: Attic black-figure olpe by Amasis Painter, 550–500 BCE, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art: inv. 59.11.17. © The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.

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Fig. 2.3: Protoattic black-figure amphora by the Polyphemus Painter, 670–660 BCE, Eleusis, Archaeological Museum: inv. 2630. © DAI Athens.

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III The Gaze beyond literature In this chapter, I make a case for the narrative significance of the gaze in the Odyssey. Homer uses the link between gazing and desire to reinforce the drive of nostos. The experience of gazing at beautiful women fails to instill desire in Odysseus; instead, in a notable inversion generated by the formulaic diction for nostos, Odysseus desires to “see the day of his homecoming”. Ironically, when he actually returns, the visual imagery of nostos does not pan out. Other than the desiring eye, Homer capitalizes on the gaze as carrier of aggression and control. In some of the adventures of the apologoi, the presentation of the gaze underlines that Odysseus is the object of assaults. Then on Ithaca, he himself marshals a stare that expresses control and conveys aggression. In the stringing of the bow, crucial to his revenge, Odysseus’ gaze turns into an actual assault. The engagement with vision thus highlights the shift from passive to active heroism in the course of the Odyssey’s plot. To close this chapter, I would like to take a brief look at pottery.40 As scanty as it is, our record of early vase-painting suggests that the Odyssey’s deployment of the gaze is more than a literary strategy and mirrors a broader investment with vision in the archaic age. The eye is an iconographic motif that is widespread.41 The black-figured eye-cups from Attica and Chalcis immediately spring to mind (Fig. 2.1).42 Featuring two eyes beside the handles on one side, these cups become masks for whoever lifts them. While the majority of eye-cups stem from the last third of the 6th century, other vessels featuring eyes are closer to what may have been the time in which the Odyssey was composed. Eyes are found on jugs, bowls and amphorai from the 7th century BCE across Greece, from Attica to Boeotia and Rhodes.43 The great pupils on the reverse side of Attic olpai, well known from works of the Amasis painter, also seem to originate in the third quarter of the 7th century (Fig. 2.2).44 Whatever the function of depictions of eyes on archaic vases is, – whether, for exam-

40 In Grethlein 2015, I take the juxtaposition of the representation of vision in the Odyssey and early vase-painting in a different direction. There I argue that both play up their own media, vase-painting by privileging a scene that centres on vision, Homer by linking nostos to vision through formulaic diction, but then granting narrative a far more prominent place in Odysseus’ return. 41 Besides Martens 1992, 284–363, see also Steinhart 1995; Moser von Filseck 1996; Giuman 2013; Haug 2015; Grethlein 2016. 42 E.g. Ferrari 1986; Kunisch 1990. 43 Cf. Martens 1992, 295–325. 44 See the olpe from the Athenian Agora P 22550, Brann 1962, 93 Nr. 544 t. 33.

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ple, they serve apotropaic purposes or anthropomorphise the vessels45 – they parallel the fascination with vision that we have found in the Odyssey. At the same time, the pictorial engagement with vision is further charged: since we perceive pictures by sight, representations of eyes are potentially reflexive.46 While it is difficult to find in early vase-painting motifs that express the link between desire and vision with which the Odyssey plays, the aggressive dimension of the gaze looms large. Most incisively, Medusa embodies the assaultive gaze: whoever looks at her stare is transformed into stone. From the beginnings of Greek art, the gorgoneion is a fixture. While exacerbating the force of the gaze, the motif of Medusa’s head gains an ironic twist from the en face presentation. Unlike most other figures on vases, Medusa gazes at the beholder, but instead of the beholder, she herself is fixed, if not in stone, then in clay. Rainer Mack argued that the viewer thus re-enacts the victory of Perseus over Medusa: through the power of representation, the objectifying view of Medusa is turned upon herself.47 This inversion notwithstanding, the prominence of the gorgoneion in early vase-painting illustrates a vivid concern with gaze and aggression. What is more, one of the episodes discussed in this essay seems to be the earliest Odyssean motif in our record of vase-painting. As we have seen, the blinding of Polyphemus demonstrates the power of the gaze via negationis. Only by depriving the Cyclops of his eye-sight can Odysseus evade his control. It has recently been doubted that the archaic vases which show men ramming a spear into the eye of a giant actually represent the Polyphemus episode.48 The fluidity of oral traditions and the loss of most of them to us certainly dictate a caveat, and yet the reasons adduced to exclude a representation of Polyphemus are far from conclusive. Deviations from the Homeric account in the number of attackers and the object used for the blinding surely do not warrant the assumption that another story is depicted. At the same time, a detail in some of the paintings seems to corroborate a reference to the Odyssey. A vessel held by the giant indicates his inebriation, an element that is not found in any of the non-Homeric tales of blinded ogres.49

45 Jahn 1885 is the crucial point of reference for works that emphasize apotropaic purposes. Martens 1992, 284–359 concentrates on “animation anthropomorphique”; Steinhart 1995 focuses on the pictorial context to define the function of eyes. 46 See the argument in Grethlein 2016 and, more broadly, 2017b chs. 5 and 6. 47 Mack 2002. 48 See Snodgrass 1998, 90–100; Burgess 2001, 94–114. For a fuller consideration of this issue with further bibliography, see Grethlein 2015, 203–4. 49 Cf. Giuliani 2003, 110–12.

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Our scanty record makes it impossible to assert with certainty that the blinding of Polyphemus actually was the earliest Homeric motif in vase-painting. What can be stated with confidence though is the popularity of the motif. Our evidence spans a vast area, including Eleusis (amphora), Argos (Aristhonotos krater), Etruria (Getty Museum pithos) and Samos (dagger). The arguably earliest vase further suggests that the topic of vision was one of the reasons that made the blinding of Polyphemus such an attractive motif.50 The ProtoAttic Eleusis amphora pairs the blinding of Polyphemus on its neck with the pursuit of Perseus by the Gorgons on the belly (Fig. 2.3).51 Both scenes feature an encounter of man with monster, albeit inversely: while three men attack Polyphemus, Perseus is pursued by two Gorgons, with the third one already dead. Strikingly, both motifs revolve around vision: where Odysseus and his comrades ram the spear into the open eye of Polyphemus, the Gorgons threaten to petrify their viewers with their gaze. The petrifying look of the Gorgons therefore at once corresponds and contrasts with the blinding of Polyphemus: whereas the one scene magnifies the power of the eye, the other reveals its vulnerability. This meditation on vision can be interpreted along different lines. Taking his cue from the use of the amphora as a coffin for a boy, Robin Osborne considers vision as a metaphor for life: “The whole vase is a construal of death, a discussion of the nature of death as sensory deprivation. Death comes when the visual world closes in on you when you yourself are to be seen in a pot. To die is to enter Hades, and to enter Hades is, by the very name, to become unseeing and unseen.”52 Approaching the Eleusis amphora from a different angle, I propose that the depictions of Polyphemus and the Gorgons furnish a reflection on pictorial seeing.53 The eyes of the Gorgons meet the eyes of the viewer and invite him to relate the gaze depicted on the vase to his gaze at the

50 For Schefold 1993, 163, the prominence of the Polyphemus motif is due to the significance of the episode, which provokes the wrath of Poseidon and therefore serves as a central juncture in the plot. Concerning the blinding, Touchefeu-Meynier 1992, 957 ponders the beauty of the episode in Homer as well as the popularity of the underlying tale. Hölscher 1999, 20–24 interprets Odysseus’ encounter with barbarian Polyphemus as a reflection of the experiences with alien people in the course of travels, commerce and colonization, all increasing in the 7th century BCE. 51 The shoulder shows a third hostile encounter, lion vs. boar, which relates to the two other pictures but will be left aside here. For a closer look at the Eleusis amphora, see Grethlein 2016, 89–94; forthcoming. 52 Osborne 1988, 4. For a critique of Osborne’s interpretation of the Eleusinian amphora and its use for social history, see Morris 1993, 28–32, Whitley 1994, 63–65. 53 Grethlein 2016, 89–94.

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vase. More specifically, the en face depiction of the Gorgons highlights that the beholder is immune to their visual threat. This underscores the “as-if” of pictorial seeing. The safety of regarding a picture is also thrown into relief by the scene on the neck. Polyphemus loses the very organ by which the beholder perceives his representation. What matters to my argument here is that the juxtaposition with the stare of the Gorgons draws our attention to the reflection on vision inherent in the blinding of Polyphemus. Not only in the Odyssey, but also in early vase-painting, Odysseus’ encounter with Polyphemus is used to reflect on the eye and its power. In this context, a black-figured Pseudo-Chalcidian amphora dating from the last third of the 6th century BCE is worth mentioning. Here, we do not in fact see the eye of Polyphemus, occluded as it is by the stake that the Greeks ram into it. The invisibility of the eye makes Polyphemus’ blinding tangible for the viewers: the Cyclops’ loss of (active) sight is iconographically expressed through the viewers’ loss of (passive) sight; the represented act of blinding is at once paralleled by and mediated through the representational occlusion of the organ for seeing. As if to underscore the point, the neck of the amphora features a Silen’s mask with two large eyes staring frontally out at the viewer. Such masks recur on Chalcidian vases, adding a Dionysian theme.54 On the vase under discussion, the Silen’s mask takes on an additional significance: the prominent eyes reinforce the focus on vision in the Polyphemus motif. The gaze has lately attracted much attention in the field of Classics.55 Greco-Roman antiquity was, it appears, highly invested in vision. Most scholarly work has concentrated on the Hellenistic and Imperial periods. Their penetrating reflections and subtle games with text and image richly reward our interpretative efforts. My reading of the narrative use of the gaze in the Odyssey and the brief consideration of early vase-painting suggest that the archaic age too was deeply concerned with vision. While Homer deploys the gaze of his characters to endow individual scenes with depth and to reinforce the trajectory of his plot, painters cash in on the reflexive potential of the eye for visual art. The sophisticated treatment of vision in authors like Philostratus, Lucian and Achilles Statius is embedded in a long tradition that has its roots in Homer.

54 Steinhart 1995, 62–63. See also Ferrari 1986, 11–20 and Frontisi-Ducroux 1995, 100–3 on masks on vases. 55 See n. 10.

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Giuliani, L. (2003), Bild und Mythos. Geschichte der Bilderzählung in der griechischen Kunst, Munich. Giuman, M. (2013), Archeologia dello sguardo. Fascinazione e baskania nel mondo classico, Rome. Goldhill, S. (1988), “Reading Differences. The Odyssey and Juxtaposition”, in: Ramus 17, 1–31. Goldhill, S. (1991), The Poet’s Voice. Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature, Cambridge. Goldhill, S. (1994), “The Naïve and Knowing Eye. Ecphrasis and the Culture of Viewing in the Hellenistic World”, in: S. Goldhill / R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 197–223. Goldhill, S. (1996), “Review: S. D. Olson, Blood & Iron. Stories and Storytelling in Homer’s Odyssey”, in: CPh 91, 180–184. Graziosi, B. (2002), Inventing Homer. The Early Reception of Epic, Cambridge. Grethlein, J. (2008), “Memory and Material Objects in the Iliad and the Odyssey”, in: JHS 128, 27–51. Grethlein, J. (2015), “Vision and Reflexivity in the Odyssey and Early Vase-Painting”, in: Word & Image 31, 197–212. Grethlein, J. (2016), “Sight and Reflexivity. Theorising Vision in Greek Vase-Painting”, in: M. Squire (ed.), Sight and the Ancient Senses, Durham NC, 85–106. Grethlein, J. (2017a), Die Odyssee. Homer und die Kunst des Erzählens, Munich. Grethlein, J. (2017b), Aesthetic Experiences and Classical Antiquity. The Content of Form in Narratives and Pictures, Cambridge. Grethlein, J. (forthcoming), “Ornamental and Formulaic Patterns. The Semantic Significance of Form in Early Greek Vase-Painting and Homeric Epic”, in: N. Dietrich / M. Squire (eds.), Figure and Ornament in Greek and Roman Art, Berlin / New York. Grethlein, J. / Huitink, L. (2017), “Homer’s Vividness. An Enactive Approach”, in: JHS 137: 67–91. Hainsworth, J. B. (1993), The Iliad. A Commentary, III. Books 9–12, Cambridge. Halliwell, S. (2011), Between Ecstasy and Truth. Interpretations of Greek Poetics from Homer to Longinus, Oxford. Harsh, P. W. (1950), “Penelope and Odysseus in Odyssey XIX”, in: AJPh 71, 1–21. Haug, A. (2015), “Das Auge und der Blick. Zum Auftreten von Zuschauern in der griechischen Bilderwelt”, in: B. Fricke / U. Krass (eds.), The Public in the Picture, Zürich, 23–56. Heubeck, A. (1992), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey. Vol. III: Books XVII–XXIV, Oxford, 313–418. Hofstetter, E. (1990), Sirenen im archaischen und klassischen Griechenland, Würzburg. Holoka, J. P. (1983), “ ‘Looking Darkly’ (ϒΠΟΔΡΑ ΙΔΩΝ). Reflections on Status and Decorum in Homer”, in: TAPhA 113, 1–16. Hölscher, T. (1999), “Immagini mitologiche e valori sociali nella grecia arcaica”, in: F. De Angelis / S. Muth (eds.), Im Spiegel des Mythos. Bilderwelt und Lebenswelt, Wiesbaden, 11–30. Hopman, M. (2012), Scylla. Myth, Metaphor, Paradox, Cambridge. Hurwit, J. M. (1977), “Image and Frame in Greek Art”, in: AJA 81, 1–30. Jahn, O. (1885), “Über den Aberglauben des bösen Blickes bei den Alten”, in: Berichte über die Verhandlungen der Königlich Sächsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig 7, 28–110. Jonas, H. (1982), “The Nobility of Sight. A Study in the Phenomenology of the Senses”, in: H. Jonas (ed.), The Phenomenon of Life. Towards a Philosophical Biology, Chicago, 135–151.

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Kannicht, R. (1982), “Poetry and Art. Homer and the Monuments Afresh”, in: ClAnt 13, 70–86. Katz, M. A. (1991), Penelope’s Renown. Meaning and Indeterminacy in the Odyssey, Princeton. Köhnken, A. (1976), “Die Narbe des Odysseus. Ein Beitrag zur homerisch-epischen Erzähltechnik”, in: A&A 22, 101–114. Korshak, Y. (1987), Frontal Faces in Attic Vase Painting of the Archaic Period, Chicago. Kunisch, N. (1990), “Die Augen der Augenschalen”, in: AntK 33, 20–27. Lattimore, R. (1965), The Odyssey of Homer, New York. Leumann, M. (1950), Homerische Wörter, Basel. Levine, D. (1987), “Flens matrona et meretrices gaudentes”, in: CW 81, 23–27. Lorimer, H. L. (1950), Homer and the Monuments, London. Lovatt, H. (2013), The Epic Gaze. Vision, Gender and Narrative in Ancient Epic, Cambridge. Lovatt, H. / Vout, C. (2013) (eds.), Epic Visions. Visuality in Greek and Latin Epic and Its Reception, Cambridge. Lynn-George, M. (1988), Epos. Word, Narrative and the Iliad, London. Mack, R. (2002), “Facing Down Medusa (an Aetiology of the Gaze)”, in: Art History 25, 571–604. Macleod, C. W. (1983), “Homer on Poetry and the Poetry of Homer”, in: C. W. Macleod, Collected Essays, Oxford, 1–15. Malten, L. (1961), Die Sprache des menschlichen Antlitzes im frühen Griechentum, Berlin. Manieri, A. (1998), L’immagine poetica nella teoria degli antichi. Phantasia ed enargeia, Pisa. Marg, W. (1973), “Zur Eigenart der Odyssee”, in: A&A 18, 1–14. Martens, D. (1992), Une esthétique de la transgression. Le vase grec de la fin de l’époque géométrique au début de l’époque classique, Brussels. Morris, I. (1993), “Poetics of Power. The Interpretation of Ritual Action in Archaic Greece”, in: C. Dougherty / L. Kurke (eds.), Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece. Cult, Performance, Politics, Cambridge, 15–45. Moser von Filseck, K. (1996), Blickende Bilder. Versuch zu einer hermeneutischen Archäologie, sine loco. Most, G. W. (1989), “The Structure and Function of Odysseus’ Apologoi”, in: TAPhA 119, 15–30. Mulvey, L. (1975), “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”, in: Screen 16, 6–18. Murnaghan, S. (1987), Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey, Princeton. Niles, J. D. (1978), “Patterning in the Wanderings of Odysseus”, in: Ramus 7, 46–60. Nünlist, R. (2009), The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia, Cambridge. Olson, S. D. (1995), Blood and Iron. Stories and Storytelling in Homer’s Odyssey, Leiden. Osborne, R. (1988), “Death Revisited; Death Revised. The Death of the Artist in Archaic and Classical Greece”, in: Art History 11, 1–16. Osborne, R. (1998), Archaic and Classical Greek Art, Oxford. Otto, N. (2009), Enargeia. Untersuchung zur Charakteristik alexandrinischer Dichtung, Stuttgart. Page, D. L. (1955), The Homeric Odyssey. The Mary Flexner Lectures Delivered at Bryn Mawr College, Pennsylvania, Oxford. Peradotto, J. J. (1990), Man in the Middle Voice. Name and Narration in the Odyssey, Princeton.

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Prévot, A. (1935), “Verbes grecs relatifs à la vision et noms de l’oeil (2e Article)”, in: Revue de philologie, de litérature et d’histoire anciennes 61, 233–279. Prier, R. A. (1980), “That Gaze of the Hound. Odyssey 19.228–231”, in: RhM 123, 178–180. Prier, R. A. (1989), Thauma idesthai. The Phenomenology of Sight and Appearance in Archaic Greek, Tallahassee. Pucci, P. (1979), “The Song of the Sirens”, in: Arethusa 12, 121–132. Pucci, P. (1987), Odysseus Polutropos. Intertextual Readings in the Odyssey and the Iliad, Ithaca. Puelma, M. (1989), “Der Dichter und die Wahrheit in der griechischen Poetik von Homer bis Aristoteles”, in: MH 46, 65–100. Redfield, J. (1983), “The Economic Man”, in: C. A. Rubino (ed.), Approaches to Homer, Austin, 218–247. Reinhardt, K. (1948), “Die Abenteuer der Odyssee”, in: K. Reinhardt, Von Werken und Formen. Vorträge und Aufsätze, Godesberg, 52–162. Richardson, N. J. (1975), “Homeric Professors in the Age of the Sophists”, in: PCPhS 21, 65–81. Richardson, N. J. (1983), “Recognition Scenes in the Odyssee and Ancient Literary Criticism”, in: Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar 4, 219–236. Rispoli, G. M. (1984), “Φαντασία ed ἐνάργεια negli scolî all’Iliade”, in: Vichiana 13, 311–339. Rizzini, I. (1998), L’occhio parlante. Per una semiotica dello sguardo nel mondo antico, Venice. Rohdich, H. (1990), “Zwei Exkurse in die Vergangenheit”, in: A&A 36, 35–46. Roisman, H. M. (1990), “Eumaeus and Odysseus – Covert Recognition and Self-Revelation?”, in: ICS 15, 215–238. Rose, G. P. (1979), “Odysseus’ Barking Heart”, in: TAPhA 109, 215–230. Russo, J. (1992), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey. Vol. III. Books XVII–XXIV, Oxford. Schefold, K. (1993), Götter- und Heldensagen der Griechen in der früh- und hocharchaischen Kunst, Munich. Schein, S. L. (1970), “Odysseus and Polyphemus in the Odyssey”, in: GRBS 11, 73–83. Scully, S. (1987), “Doubling in the Tale of Odysseus”, in: CW 80, 401–417. Segal, C. (1994), Singers, Heroes, and Gods in the Odyssey, Ithaca. Slatkin, L.(2007), “Notes on Tragic Visualizing in the Iliad”, in: C. Kraus / S. Goldhill / H. P. Foley / J. Elsner (eds.), Visualizing the Tragic. Drama, Myth, and Ritual in Greek Art and Literature. Essays in Honour of Froma Zeitlin, Oxford, 19–34. Snell, B. (1924), Die Ausdrücke für den Begriff des Wissens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie, Berlin. Snodgrass, A. M. (1998), Homer and the Artists. Text and Picture in Early Greek Art, Cambridge. Stansbury-O’Donnell, M. (1999), Pictorial Narrative in Ancient Greek Art, Cambridge. Starobinski, J. (1975), “The Inside and the Outside (Transl. Frederick Brown)”, in: The Hudson Review 28, 333–351. Steingräber, S. (1985) (ed.), Etruskische Wandmalerei, Stuttgart. Steinhart, M. (1995), Das Motiv des Auges in der griechischen Bildkunst, Mainz. Strauss Clay, J. (1983), The Wrath of Athena. Gods and Men in the Odyssey, Princeton. Touchefeu-Meynier, O. (1992), “Odysseus”, in: H. C. Ackermann (ed.), Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, Zurich, 943–970. Vernant, J. P. (1990), Figures, idoles, masques, Paris.

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von den Hoff, R. (2009), “Odysseus in der antiken Bildkunst”, in: H. J. Gehrke / M. Kirschkowski (eds.), Odysseus. Irrfahrten durch die Jahrhunderte, Freiburg, 39–64. Walker, A. (1992), “Eros and the Eye in the Love-Letters of Philostratus”, in: PCPhS 38, 132–148. Walsh, G. B. (1984), The Varieties of Enchantment. Early Greek Views of the Nature and Function of Poetry, Chapel Hill. Webb, R. (2009), Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice, Farnham. Whitley, J. (1994), “Protoattic Pottery. A Contextual Approach”, in: I. Morris (ed.), Classical Greece. Ancient Histories and Modern Archaeologies, Cambridge, 51–70. Whitman, C. H. (1958), Homer and the Heroic Tradition, Cambridge, MA. Zanker, G. (2004), Modes of Viewing in Hellenistic Poetry and Art, Madison. Zeitlin, F. (1994), “The Artful Eye. Vision, Ecphrasis and Spectacle in Euripidean Theater”, in: S. Goldhill / R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 138–96; 295–304. Zeitlin, F. (1996), “Figuring Fidelity in Homer’s Odyssey”, in: F. Zeitlin, Playing the Other. Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Chicago, 19–52.

Claudia Michel

Blindness and Blinding in the Homeric Odyssey Introduction: Blindness and Literature In his essay “The Rhetoric of Blindness: Jacques Derrida’s Reading of Rousseau”1 in the volume Blindness and Insight, Paul de Man takes as his starting point an observation on the literary criticism of his time, arguing that insight into the nature of literary language is always gained by means of a contradictory process which results in a gap between statement and meaning, thus showing critics to be “in the grip of a peculiar blindness”.2 Understanding literary criticism as a form of active reading, de Man presumes a connection between this phenomenon and the act of writing itself and thus investigates the characteristic aspect of literary language causing this blindness. Taking the example of Derrida’s interpretation in “De la Grammatologie”3 of Rousseau’s “Essais sur l’Origine des Langues”,4 he calls blindness a “necessary correlative” of literary texts, their figural or fictional mode. In examining blindness as a literary motif in modern Western literature,5 a link between blindness and writing and fiction can be found in many texts.

1 De Man 1971. 2 Ibid. 106. 3 Derrida 1967. 4 Rousseau 1817. 5 For a study of blindness as a literary and aesthetic motif in the Romantic period, see S. Eickenrodt (ed.), Blindheit in Literatur und Ästhetik (1750–1850), Würzburg 2012; E. Larissy, The Blind and Blindness in Literature of the Romantic Period, Edinburgh 2007. Concerning the motif of blindness in German literature after 1945, see N. Welskop, Der Blinde. Konstruktionen eines Motivs in der deutschsprachigen Literatur nach 1945, Berlin 2014; see also L. T. Ilea, Littérature et scénarios d’aveuglement: Orhan Pamuk, Ernest Sábato, José Saramogo, Paris 2013. Regarding blindness and autobiography in modern Arabic literature, see F. Malti-Douglas, F., Blindness and Autobiography. Al-Ayyām of Ṭāhā Ḥusayn, Princeton 1987. Note: I wish to thank the participants of the conference “Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature” (Freiburg i. Br., December 2014), in particular Françoise Létoublon and Douglas Cairns, for the stimulating discussion concerning Homeric similes. Moreover, I am grateful to Douglas Cairns for his valuable advice on the conceptions of ὕβρις and ἄτη from which section 2.2 of this paper benefitted very much. Special thanks are due to Barbara Dietz, Florence Low, Tobias Joho, and Alexandros Kampakoglou for their help with English idiom. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-004

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In one of Henry Green’s early novels, Blindness (1926), young John Haye is suddenly blinded in an accident and thus finds his plans to become a writer hindered. The protagonist of the novel Die Blendung (1936) by Elias Canetti, Peter Kien, is a sinologist and collector of books, living in an enormous library and constructing another virtual library in his head, a “Kopfbibliothek”. The protagonist of Ingeborg Bachmann’s short story “Ihr glücklichen Augen” (Simultan, 1972), Miranda, perceives her extreme short-sightedness as a refusal of reality and a protection of her inner world. Searching for an “Aesthetics of Blindness”, David Feeney is certainly right in carefully distinguishing between a sighted artist’s imagination of blindness and the aesthetic experiences of blind people.6 The interpretation of blindness in Western culture is ocularcentric and thus ambiguous, depending on its social and historical context.7 As for ancient Greek culture, blindness has been analysed within the dialectic of light and darkness by the blind researcher Eleftheria A. BernidakiAldous. She first discusses the importance of “light” (φῶς, “sunlight, eyesight”) in Greek culture, denoting it as a “culture of light”,8 since the term φῶς is synonymous with “life” and “public (honor)”.9 She explores the consequential negative attitude towards blindness which is associated with physical helplessness, moral ignorance, and punishment. She then discusses variations in social responses to blindness within Sophoclean drama, in particular in Oedipus at Colonus, which she views as a microcosm of Greek society.10 Françoise Létoublon, in the article “To See or Not to See. Blindness in Ancient Greek Myths”, to which this paper owes much, has pointed out that the main Greek word for “blind”, τυφλός, is a hapax in Homer, used only in Iliad 6.13911 to describe the blinding of Lycurgus. However, several blind persons appear among the male characters, with other idioms being used to describe blinding and blindness in these instances.12 In the Odyssey, the motif of blindness even seems to represent an “Ariadne’s thread” through the poem’s narrative structure; the blind singer Demodocus plays a pivotal role in the narrative, the blinding of the Cyclops Polyphemus is described at great length, and blindness in the sense of “not seeing” is linked in a correlative way with the epic’s leitmo-

6 Feeney 2007. 7 Cf. Barasch 2001. 8 Cf. Christopoulos / Karakantza / Levaniouk 2010. 9 Bernidaki-Aldous 1990, 11–31. 10 Bernidaki-Aldous 1990, 95–131. In the second part of the book is found a detailed study of the motif of the tragic hero’s blindness in Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (135–91). 11 Cf. h.Ap. 3.174; Létoublon 2010, 169. 12 Létoublon 2010, 169–71.

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tif of recognition. Moreover, Demodocus appears immediately before an important caesura in the poem’s narrative structure, the beginning of the hero’s long narration of his adventures, with the blinding of Polyphemus related shortly thereafter. The aim of this paper is to analyse the linguistic quality and the narrotological function of three facets of this literary motif of the Odyssey: the destruction of the eye in the blinding of Polyphemus (1); visual perception disturbed by emotional excess when Penelope is blinded by tears (2.1) and the suitors and Odysseus’ companions are blinded by ὕβρις or ἀτασθαλίαι (2.2); and blindness and the Muses in regard to the blind singer Demodocus (3).

The Deconstruction of the Eye: The Blinding of Polyphemus Given that the word κύκλωψ literally means “round-eyed”, there is no clear evidence in Homer that the whole tribe of the Cyclopes had only a single eye like Polyphemus. On the other hand, Hesiod’s Theogony insists on a version of the myth where all Cyclopes have a single eye (Theog. 142–5, Rzach, A. ed.): οἳ δή τοι τὰ μὲν ἄλλα θεοῖς ἐναλίγκιοι ἦσαν, μοῦνος δ’ ὀφθαλμὸς μέσσῳ ἐνέκειτο μετώπῳ. [Κύκλωπες δ’ ὄνομ’ ἦσαν ἐπώνυμον, οὕνεκ’ ἄρα σφέων κυκλοτερὴς ὀφθαλμὸς ἕεις ἐνέκειτο μετώπῳ.] These were like the gods in other regards, but only one eye was set in the middle of their foreheads; and they were called Cyclopes (Circle-eyed) by name, since a circle-shaped eye was set in their foreheads.13

The characteristic physiognomy of the Cyclopes is explicitly mentioned and repeated as part of the aetiology of their name (143, μοῦνος … ὀφθαλμός; 145, ὀφθαλμὸς ἕεις).14 In the Odyssey however the fact that Polyphemus is one-eyed is merely implied. In the assembly of the gods in Book 1, Zeus refers to Odysseus’ blinding of Polyphemus’ single eye as the reason for the wrath of Poseidon (Od. 1.68–70; 69, ὃν ὀφθαλμοῦ ἀλάωσεν).15 The singular form of ὀφθαλμός occurs 13 Translation quoted from Most 2006, 15. 14 Stanford (1961) ad Od. 9.106. Hes. Th. 144 f. have been athetised by Wolf. Th. 144 ἐπώνυμοι Et. gen. s. v. Κύκλωπες Anecdot. Ox. 1.254 Cr. 15 ἀλαόω “to blind” with gen. ὀφθαλμοῦ, of an eye, is also used at Od. 9.516. Cf. forms of ἐξαλαόω “to blind utterly” Od. 9.453; 504; 11.103 (with acc. ὀφθαλμόν); 13.343. The noun ἀλαωτύς “blinding” only Od. 9.503 (with gen. ὀφθαλμοῦ) and Anth. Gr. 1.119,15. The adjective ἀλαός is used in the Odyssey 8.195, in a saying of Athena, and 10.493; 12.267 (μάντιος ἀλαοῦ), referring to Tiresias, the blind seer from Thebes.

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also in Book 9 as the only linguistic mark of Polyphemus’ one-eyedness; it is used in Odysseus’ plotting before the blinding, within his description of the blinding, and in the following reported speech (his own and the monster’s).16 Even more drastic is the presentation of the blinding scene, focusing on the single eye as if being blinded were its very function (Od. 9.382–97, Allen, T. W. ed.):

385

390

395

οἱ μὲν μοχλὸν ἑλόντες ἐλάϊνον, ὀξὺν ἐπ’ ἄκρῳ, ὀφθαλμῷ ἐνέρεισαν· ἐγὼ δ’ ἐφύπερθεν ἐρεισθεὶς δίνεον, ὡς ὅτε τις τρυπῷ δόρυ νήϊον ἀνὴρ τρυπάνῳ, οἱ δέ τ’ ἔνερθεν ὑποσσείουσιν ἱμάντι ἁψάμενοι ἑκάτερθε, τὸ δὲ τρέχει ἐμμενὲς αἰεί· ὣς τοῦ ἐν ὀφθαλμῷ πυριήκεα μοχλὸν ἑλόντες δινέομεν, τὸν δ’ αἷμα περίρρεε θερμὸν ἐόντα. πάντα δέ οἱ βλέφαρ’ ἀμφὶ καὶ ὀφρύας εὗσεν ἀϋτμὴ γλήνης καιομένης· σφαραγεῦντο δέ οἱ πυρὶ ῥίζαι. ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἀνὴρ χαλκεὺς πέλεκυν μέγαν ἠὲ σκέπαρνον εἰν ὕδατι ψυχρῷ βάπτῃ μεγάλα ἰάχοντα φαρμάσσων· τὸ γὰρ αὖτε σιδήρου γε κράτος ἐστίν· ὣς τοῦ σίζ’ ὀφθαλμὸς ἐλαϊνέῳ περὶ μοχλῷ. σμερδαλέον δὲ μέγ’ ᾤμωξεν, περὶ δ’ ἴαχε πέτρη, ἡμεῖς δὲ δείσαντες ἀπεσσύμεθ’. αὐτὰρ ὁ μοχλὸν ἐξέρυσ’ ὀφθαλμοῖο πεφυρμένον αἵματι πολλῷ. They took the stake of olivewood, sharp at the point, and thrust it into his eye, while I, throwing my weight upon it from above, whirled it round, as a man bores a ship’s timber with a drill, while those below keep it spinning with the strap, which they lay hold of by either end, and the drill runs unceasingly. Even so we took the fiery-pointed stake and whirled it around in his eye, and the blood flowed round it, all hot as it was. His eyelids above and below and his brows were all singed by the flame from the burning eyeball, and its roots crackled in the fire. And as when a smith dips a great axe or an adze in cold water to temper it and it makes a great hissing – for from this comes the strength of iron – so did his eye hiss round the stake of olivewood. Terribly then did he cry aloud, and the rock rang around; and we, seized with terror, shrank back, while he wrenched from his eye the stake, all befouled with blood.17

16 The singular ὀφθαλμός appears one time in Od. 1, in the quoted passage, and nine times in Od. 9 (9.333; 383; 387; 394; 397; 453; 503; 516; 525). 17 Translations of the Odyssey are quoted from Murray 1919.

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The act of blinding combines two movements, the pressing of the stake of olive wood into, and the turning of it within, the single eye, jobs initially distributed between Odysseus and his companions (9.382–84), then executed together (387–88). It is illustrated with the image of drilling (384, τρυπῷ; cf. 385, τρυπάνῳ, a Homeric hapax) taken from the craft of shipbuilding (384–86). The simile emphasises the technical aspect of the action as well as its spinning motion (384, δίνεον; 388, δινέομεν), corresponding to the eponymous circular shape of the monster’s eye. The following destruction of the eye is described in every detail. Blood is flowing around the hot, turning stake, then the damp of the burning pupil (390, γλήνης καιομένης) singes the eyelashes/eyelids (389, βλέφαρ’) and the eyebrows (ὀφρύας). Finally, the roots of the eye, or the optic nerve, (390, ῥίζαι)18 crackle (σφαραγεῦντο).19 The hissing noise of the burning eye (394, σίζ’) evokes another technical simile, this one inspired by the art of forging (391, ἀνὴρ χαλκεύς): the “crying” of hot iron immersed in water (391–92, πέλεκυν μέγαν ἠὲ σκέπαρνον | … μεγάλα ἰάχοντα).20 The terrible, loud lamentations of the wounded monster (395, σμερδαλέον δὲ μέγ’ ᾤμωξεν) and their echo in the rocks (περὶ δ’ ἴαχε πέτρη) extend the “soundtrack” of the narration. The description of Polyphemus then pulling the bloody stake out of his eye allows the recipients’ imagination a lingering vision of its remains. The description of the blinding gives an early account of the anatomical structure of the eye21 progressing from the outside to the inside (βλέφαρα/ ὀφρύες, γλήνη, ῥίζαι), a description which draws together vocabulary of the elements of the eye during the process of its destruction. The almost-medical, dissection-like approach in the description is reinforced not only by the fact that Polyphemus’ physical deformity warrants one single eye as the object of

18 Cf. Trompoukis / Kourkoutas 2007, 457; 459. As for ῥίζαι as element of the eye cf. Eur. HF 933: ῥίζας ἐν ὄσσοις αἱματῶπας (here perhaps rather “veins”), in the sense of roots of the teeth Arist. GA 789a13. 19 Only here and Od. 9.440, there in the sense of “were full to bursting”, cf. Heubeck / Hoekstra 1989, ad loc. 20 In Hes. Th. 141, three Cyclopes, sons of Uranus and Gaia, are concerned with forging Zeus’ thunder: Th. 139–41: Γείνατο δ’ αὖ Κύκλωπας ὑπέρβιον ἦτορ ἔχοντας | Βρόντην τε Στερόπην τε καὶ Ἄργην ὀβριμόθυμον, | [οἳ Ζηνὶ βροντήν τε δόσαν τεῦξάν τε κεραυνόν.]. V. 141 is athetised by Goettling. 21 Trompoukis / Kourkoutas 2007, 457 interpret this passage of the Odyssey from a medical point of view: “Homer makes particular mention of Odysseus’ blinding of the Cyclops Polyphemus [Od. 9.376–404]. A detailed anatomical description of the infliction of the damage is given: the burning pike first passes through the cornea, then pierces the hard sclera at the posterior pole of the eye, and then reaches as far as the orbital fat and burns the optic nerve.”

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investigation, but also by the technical similes. A medical vocabulary can be found in the comments of the other Cyclopes who, upon Polyphemus’ cries for help, tell him that if nobody has wounded him, his suffering must be a malady sent by Zeus, one that therefore cannot be evaded, and that he had better pray to Poseidon (411, νοῦσόν γ’ οὔ πως ἔστι Διὸς μεγάλου ἀλέασθαι).22 This vocabulary is then taken up by Odysseus’ mocking prophecy that not even Poseidon will be able to cure Polyphemus’ eye (525, ὡς οὐκ ὀφθαλμόν γ’ ἰήσεται οὐδ’ ἐνοσίχθων). The passage on the blinding of Polyphemus with the glowing pike employing two technical similes shows astonishing parallels with fr. 84 of Empedocles (31 B84 DK Arist. Sens. 2 p. 437b23) on the “rays” of the eye (fr. 84.6, ἀκτίνεσσι):23 ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις πρόοδον νοέων ὡπλίσσατο λύχνον χειμερίην διὰ νύκτα, πυρὸς σέλας αἰθομένοιο, ἅψας παντοίων ἀνέμων λαμπτῆρας ἀμοργούς, οἵ τ’ ἀνέμων μὲν πνεῦμα διασκιδνᾶσιν ἀέντων,

22 Cf. Longrigg 1998, 9. 23 The idea of comparing this fragment to the Homeric passage occurred to me on the occasion of a workshop conducted by Ian Rutherford in the context of the conference “Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature” on December 4th 2014 at Freiburg i. Br. Among other things, the workshop dealt with texts on the Greek emission theory of visual perception. The first traces of the theory that the eye emits rays of light scanning the surface of the viewed objects can be already found in the (of course mostly formulaic and metaphorical) language of the Homeric epics. Here, eyes are not only called ὀφθαλμοί, ὄσσε and ὄμματα but also φάεα, which occurs three times in the Odyssey (Od. 16.15; 17.39; 19.417). The word αὐγαί is used once in the expression Διὸς αὐγάς (Il. 13.837) where it nevertheless refers rather to Zeus’ bright domain than to his eyes (see Constantinidou 1993, 96–97; against R. Janko, The Iliad: A Commentary, Vol. IV: Books 13–16, Cambridge 1992, ad Il. 13.837). The meaning of αὐγή oscillates however between “light” and “vision”, and is linked to the sun in particular (cf. Il. 8.480; 17.371–72; Od. 2.181 (cf. 11.498; 619); 6.98; 12.176; 15.349; see Constantinidou 1993, 96). The idea of the personified sun seeing with its rays seems to be close to the emission theory of visual perception (Il. 14.342, cf. 338; Od. 11.16; see Constantinidou 1993, 96 n. 3; Darrigol 2012, 2–3). After Empedocles and the Pythagoreans, the theory of visual rays was taken up by Plato; while Empedocles merely describes rays emitted from the eye, Plato believes in an interaction between rays from the eye and rays from daylight or from the observed object (Plat. Tim. 45b–46c; esp. 45b–c.); cf. also Theaet. 156d; Sophist. 266c. Thus, Plato seems to be influenced also by the atomistic theory, in which visual perception is provoked by a material efflux of the objects (cf. Epicur. Ep. Hdt. ap. Diog. Laert. 10.46–49; Lucr. De rer. nat. 4.45–109; 239–468; cf. Darrigol 2012, 3–6). The theory of visual rays was rejected by Aristotle, who argued that rays of light could not work in the night and that something which issues from the eye could reach as far as the remote stars; in his opinion, the medium between the eyes and the objects of sight is light or air, and its motion effects the visual perception (Arist. De sens. 437a–38b); this idea is close to the Stoic theory of a visual πνεῦμα that was further developed by Galen (De placit. 7.5; 7).

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φῶς δ’ ἔξω διαθρῶισκον, ὅσον ταναώτερον ἦεν, λάμπεσκεν κατὰ βηλὸν ἀτειρέσιν ἀκτίνεσσιν· ὣς δὲ τότ’ ἐν μήνιγξιν ἐεργμένον ὠγύγιον πῦρ λεπτῆισίν 〈τ’〉 ὀθόνηισιν λοχάζετο κύκλοπα κούρην, 〈αἳ〉 χοάνηισιν δίαντα τετρήατο θεσπεσίηισιν· αἳ δ’ ὕδατος μὲν βένθος ἀπέστεγον ἀμφιναέντος, πῦρ δ’ ἔξω διίεσκον, ὅσον ταναώτερον ἦεν. As when someone planning a journey prepared a lamp, the gleam of blazing fire through the wintry night, and fastened line screens against all kinds of breezes, which scatter the wind of the blowing breezes but the light leapt outwards, as much of it as was finer, and shone with its tireless beams across the threshold; in this way [Aphrodite] gave birth to the rounded pupil, primeval fire crowed in the membranes and in the fine linens. And they covered over the depths of the circumfluent water and sent forth fire, as much of it as was finer.24

Although the contents are completely opposite – while the blinding scene in Od. 9 describes the destruction of an eye, Empedocles refers here to the genesis of the eye in former times (fr. 84.7, τότ’) and to its function – both passages are early documents of the Greeks’ interest in the eye’s structure, focusing closely on its anatomical elements. Empedocles is inspired by the epics in meter and language, and the account of the eye’s structure is introduced here with a technical simile of the preparing of a storm lamp before a walk in a winter night (fr. 84.1–6).25 The lamp, protecting the flame against the wind whilst letting the rays of light pass through, serves as an image to explain the eye’s construction, in which fire is “hiding” (8, λοχάζετο) in the pupil, enclosed by “membranes” (7, μήνιγξιν) under “thin garments” (8, λεπτῆισιν … ὀθόνηισιν). An idiomatic hint to the blinding scene in Od. 9 may be supposed in the poetical expression for the shape of the pupil, which is called a “round-eyed girl” (8, κύκλωπα κούρην).26 The next line seems to develop the association with the Cyclops 24 Translation quoted from Inwood 2001, 136. 25 Snell 1975, 195–97 refers to the two passages as examples of simile, differentiating between the parallel actions in Homer and the exact image in the fragment of Empedocles; cf. also Longrigg 1998, 35; Wright 1981, ad loc. 26 The adjectival form κύκλωψ is rare. Parmenides uses it referring to the moon: 28 B10.4 DK: κύκλωπος … σελήνης. Eustath. Od. 1881.27–29 (Od. 20.19): ὡς δὲ ἐκ τοῦ Κύκλωπος τοῦ ποιητικοῦ παραποιήσας Ἐμπεδοκλῆς κύκλωπα κούρην ἔφη τὴν τοῦ ὀφθαλμοῦ κατὰ λόγον δριμύτητος, ἐδήλωσε καὶ ἀλλαχοῦ. Cf. Wright 1981, ad Emped. fr. 88 (84). If the supposition is right that κύκλωψ alludes here to the Odyssey, the adjective ὠγύγιος, literally “primeval, primal” (from Ogyges, a mythical king of Attica), in the expression ὠγύγιον πῦρ one line above (31 B84.7 DK) could be part of the association, hinting at another adventure of Odysseus, the encounter with Calypso on the island of the same name (Od. 5).

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scene: the membranes and thin garments are “dispersed straight away” (8, δίαντα τετρήατο) by “marvellous canals” (8, χοάνηισιν … θεσπεσίηισιν), phrasing that may evoke the act of blinding, underlined by the image of drilling (Od. 9.384–86). The two elements of the eye are fire, hiding within the pupil (fr. 84.7; 11, πῦρ), and water, flowing around the pupil (10, ὕδατος … ἀμφιναέντος, cf. Od. 9.388, περίρρεε, of the blood flowing around the pike). Separated by the canals or funnels, they are identical to those elements whose violent encounter in Polyphemus’ eye leads, in the passage of the Odyssey, to the impressive second simile (9.390–93; 390, πυρί; 393, ὕδατι). While the deconstructive act of blinding in the Odyssey explores the eye’s structure, fr. 84 of Empedocles, perhaps echoing the Odyssey passage, develops these ideas further by studying the eye’s function in terms of the process of visual perception. The affinity between the passages nevertheless highlights the analytical and scientific approach to the eye in the Homeric account of the blinding of Polyphemus.27 Following the blinding scene, the perspective becomes somewhat more removed, showing Polyphemus deprived of his eyes and so having to rely on the “lower sense”28 of touch (Od. 9.415–18): Κύκλωψ δὲ στενάχων τε καὶ ὠδίνων ὀδύνῃσιν, χερσὶ ψηλαφόων, ἀπὸ μὲν λίθον εἷλε θυράων, αὐτὸς δ’ εἰνὶ θύρῃσι καθέζετο χεῖρε πετάσσας, εἴ τινά που μετ’ ὄεσσι λάβοι στείχοντα θύραζε· But the Cyclops, groaning and toiling in anguish, groped with his hands and took away the stone from the door, and himself sat in the doorway with arms outstretched in the hope of catching anyone who tried to go out with the sheep.

27 As for Empedocles’ interest in the eye, see Wright 1981, ad Emped. fr. 88(4).8, with reference to Alcmaeon, who is said to have dissected the eye, 24 A10 DK. In Euripides’ satyr play Cyclops, for the sake of comparison, Odysseus’ “Homeric” planning speech on the blinding of Polyphemus, whilst carefully imitating the image of drilling from the art of shipbuilding, does not pay much attention to the eye’s anatomical structure (Cycl. 454–63). Nor does the chorus’ comment on the blinding itself (Cycl. 654–62; but 657, ἐκκαίετε τὰν ὀφρύν). 28 In the Aristotelian hierarchisation of the senses (sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch), touch is in the bottom position; at least the sense of touch is common to all animals, cf. De an. 2.3, 414a29–b6, esp. 414b2–5 (Ross, W. D. ed.): ὄρεξις μὲν γὰρ ἐπιθυμία καὶ θυμὸς καὶ βούλησις, τὰ δὲ ζῷα πάντ’ ἔχουσιν μίαν γε τῶν αἰσθήσεων, τὴν ἁφήν· ᾧ δ’ αἴσθησις ὑπάρχει, τούτῳ ἡδονή τε καὶ λύπη καὶ τὸ ἡδύ τε καὶ λυπηρόν, οἷς δὲ ταῦτα, καὶ ἡ ἐπιθυμία. In Plato, touch is not yet a separate category and instead belongs to the lower senses, while sight, as the supreme sense, along with hearing contributes to philosophical knowledge (νοῦς), cf. Ti. 46d–47e; 47b1–5: ἐξ ὧν ἐπορισάμεθα φιλοσοφίας γένος, οὗ μεῖζον ἀγαθὸν οὔτ’ ἦλθεν οὔτε ἥξει ποτὲ τῷ θνητῷ γένει δωρηθὲν ἐκ θεῶν. λέγω δὴ τοῦτο ὀμμάτων μέγιστον ἀγαθόν· τἆλλα δὲ ὅσα ἐλάττω τί ἂν ὑμνοῖμεν, ὧν ὁ μὴ φιλόσοφος τυφλωθεὶς ὀδυρόμενος ἂν θρηνοῖ μάτην. As for the exceptional position of sight in aesthetic theory, see Feeney 2012, 22–28.

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Various expressions are used to convey Polyphemus’ clumsy fumbling about (9.416, χερσὶ ψηλαφόων – ψηλαφόων is a Homeric hapax; 417, χεῖρε πετάσσας; cf. 398, χερσὶν ἀλύων). The behaviour of the blinded monster inspires Odysseus to his second ruse, tricking his remaining sense by letting him touch the backs of sheep instead of Odysseus’ companions bound under them (441, ἐπεμαίετο). Polyphemus touches also the ram under which Odysseus himself is bound (446, ἐπιμασσάμενος) noticing the disturbed order, since normally the ram is the first to come out of the cave, yet this time is the last. Stupid as he is however, he merely asks the ram for an explanation. Ironically, the same verb, ἐπιμαίεσθαι, is used to describe Polyphemus touching the sheep as was already used when Odysseus reflected on his own sense of touch in the darkness of the cave when devising his initial plan to kill Polyphemus with a sword (302, χείρ’ ἐπιμασσάμενος).29 The spectacular quality of the passage, appealing to the pleasure of the sighted recipient in watching someone being blinded, is evidenced by the fact that it was depicted in an ancient theatrical context, possibly in the Odyssēs of Cratinus and certainly in Euripides’ Cyclops.30 In the final scene of the satyr play, the scene of the Cyclops groping around is transformed into a dialogue of fifteen lines (Eur. Cyc. 675–90, Diggle, J. ed.): 675

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[Κυ.] σκώπτεις. ὁ δ’ Οὖτις ποῦ ‘στιν; [Χο.] οὐδαμοῦ, Κύκλωψ. … [Κυ.] πρὸς θεῶν, πεφεύγασ’ ἢ μένους’ ἔσω δόμων; [Χο.] οὗτοι σιωπῇ τὴν πέτραν ἐπήλυγα λαβόντες ἑστήκασιν. [Κυ.] ποτέρας τῆς χερός; [Χο.] ἐν δεξιᾷ σου. [Κυ.] ποῦ; [Χο.] πρὸς αὐτῇ τῇ πέτρᾳ. ἔχεις; [Κυ.] κακόν γε πρὸς κακῷ· τὸ κρανίον παίσας κατέαγα. [Χο]. καί σε διαφεύγουσί γε. [Κυ.] οὐ τῇδ’· ἐπεὶ τῇδ’ εἶπας; [Χο.] οὔ· ταύτῃ λέγω. [Κυ.] πῇ γάρ; [Χο.] περιάγου, κεῖσε, πρὸς τἀριστερά. [Κυ.] οἴμοι γελῶμαι· κερτομεῖτέ μ’ ἐν κακοῖς. [Χο.] ἀλλ’ οὐκέτ’, ἀλλὰ πρόσθεν οὗτός ἐστί σου. [Κυ.] ὦ παγκάκιστε, ποῦ ποτ’ εἶ; [Οδ.] τηλοῦ σέθεν φυλακαῖσι φρουρῶ σῶμ’ Ὀδυσσέως τόδε. [cy] You mock me. But this Noman, where is he? [ch] Nowhere, Cyclops. […] [cy] Tell me, for heaven’s sake, have they fled or are they still in the house? [ch] They are standing here quietly under

29 ἐπιμασσάμενος means here either “having clutched” the sword (see LSJ9 s. v. ἐπιμαίομαι) or “feeling for the right place with my hand” in the dark cave (Heubeck / Hoekstra 1989 ad Od. 9.302); cf. Od. 19. 30 Cf. also Ar. Vesp. 181–89.

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the overhand of the cliff. [cy] To my left or my right? [ch] To your right. [cy] Where? [ch] Right next to the cliff. Have you got them? [cy] Yes, got pain on top of pain! I’ve hit my head and broken it. [ch] And what’s more, they’ve given you the slip. [cy] Didn’t you say somewhere over here? [ch] No. I mean over here. [cy] And where is that? [ch] Turn round this way, to your left. [cy] Oh, you are mocking me, deceiving me in my troubles! [ch] I shall no more. He’s right in front of you. [cy] Knave, where in the world are you? [od] At some distance, where I can keep the person of Odysseus here safe from harm.31

In reaction to the disoriented Cyclops’ questions concerning the local position of his enemies (Cycl. 675, ποῦ ‘στιν;; 681, ποτέρας τῆς χερός;; 682, ποῦ;; 685, οὐ τῇδ’· ἐπεὶ τῇδ’ εἶπας;; 686, πῇ γάρ;; 689, ποῦ ποτ’ εἶ;), the chorus of satyrs indicates every time that a new wrong direction is chosen. The actor’s movements would surely have complemented the comic impact of this scene, resembling the game of blind man’s buff or, in German, Blindekuh. The blinding of Polyphemus in Od. 9 therefore not only takes a close look at the eye’s destruction, but also gives a theatrically effective representation of the blinded creature’s behavioural anomalies.

Blinded with Tears: Penelope In addition to the detailed description of the blinding of Polyphemus, the Odyssey’s attentiveness to the eye, its consistence, function, and dysfunction, can also be found in the motif of Penelope’s endless streams of tears that blur her vision, physically and metaphorically. In contrast to archaic poetry, for example fr. 13 W. of Archilochus,32 in the Homeric epics weeping is socially acceptable for both genders and expresses a wide range of emotions, grief, shame, yearning, and even joy.33 A prominent simile of the Iliad compares the stream of tears of Agamemnon and likewise of Patroclus to a spring pouring forth dark water (Il. 9.14–15, ἵστατο δάκρυ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος, | ἥ τε κατ’ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ ~ 16.3–4).34 In antiquity, continuous cry-

31 32 33 34

Translation quoted from Kovacs 1994, 140–43. See particularly Arch. fr. 13.9–10 W2: ἀλλὰ τάχιστα | τλῆτε, γυναικεῖον πένθος ἀπωσάμενοι. Cf. Föllinger 2009. Ibid. 22–24.

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ing was said to cause physical blindness,35 and indeed in the Odyssey the tears of Penelope, the character most often weeping, seem to disturb her perception. In her reaction to the disguised stranger’s deceptive speech in which he claims to have met Odysseus on the island of Crete, Penelope sheds tears, making her skin run with liquid, metaphorically “melting” it. The metaphor τήκεσθαι connects the weeping with the following simile of thaw in the mountains in springtime, in which the verb is elaborately developed (Od. 19.204–12):

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τῆς δ’ ἄρ’ ἀκουούσης ῥέε δάκρυα, τήκετο δὲ χρώς. ὡς δὲ χιὼν κατατήκετ’ ἐν ἀκροπόλοισιν ὄρεσσιν, ἥν τ’ Εὖρος κατέτηξεν, ἐπὴν Ζέφυρος καταχεύῃ· τηκομένης δ’ ἄρα τῆς ποταμοὶ πλήθουσι ῥέοντες· ὣς τῆς τήκετο καλὰ παρήϊα δάκρυ χεούσης, κλαιούσης ἑὸν ἄνδρα παρήμενον. αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς θυμῷ μὲν γοόωσαν ἑὴν ἐλέαιρε γυναῖκα, ὀφθαλμοὶ δ’ ὡς εἰ κέρα ἕστασαν ἠὲ σίδηρος ἀτρέμας ἐν βλεφάροισιν· δόλῳ δ’ ὅ γε δάκρυα κεῦθεν. And as she listened her tears flowed and her face melted. As the snow melts on the lofty mountains, the snow which the East Wind thaws when the West Wind has poured it down, and as it melts the streams of the rivers flow full: so her lovely cheeks melted as she wept and mourned for her husband, who even then was sitting by her side. And Odysseus in his heart had pity for his weeping wife, but his eyes stood fixed between his lids as though they were horn or iron, and with guile he hid his tears.

Forms of τήκω / κατατήκω appear three times in the figurative comparison to snow melted by the east and west wind, causing the streams to swell (Od. 19.204–8; 205, κατατήκετ’; 206, κατέτηξεν; 207, τηκομένης); the verb is then repeated upon the narrative returning to Penelope’s state (208, τήκετο).36 The image not only illustrates Penelope’s streams of tears, but also conveys the

35 Cf. Cic. Tusc. disp. 3.12, on Aietes, the father of Medea, going blind with grief; the verses (trag. inc. 189–92) are perhaps from Pacuvius’ or Ennius’ Medus (Pohlenz, M. [ed.][1982, repr.], M. Tulli Ciceronis scripta quae manserunt omnia. Fasc. 44: Tusculanae disputationes. Leipzig): quid? illum filium Solis nonne patris ipsius luce indignum putas? ‘Refugere oculi, corpus macie extabuit, | Lacrimae peredere umore exanguis genas, | Situm inter oris barba paedore horrida atque | Intonsa infuscat pectus inluvie scabrum.’ haec mala, o stultissime Aeeta, ipse tibi addidisti. Cf. Esser 1961, 24–27. 36 Cf. Russo / Fernández / Heubeck 1992, ad loc.: “A form of τήκω is used in each of these five successive verses, an unparalleled verbal concentration that creates an overwhelming image of melting and overflowing.” As for forms of τήκω in the Odyssey, cf. 19.264; 8.522 of Odysseus, cf. 5.396.

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idea of her snow-white skin being destroyed by them (204, τήκετο … χρώς; 208, τήκετο καλὰ παρήϊα).37 The long simile is followed by a brief remark concerning the paradoxical situation in which Penelope weeps for her husband although he is sitting by her side (209, κλαιούσης ἑὸν ἄνδρα παρήμενον).38 The liquid quality of her flood of tears is additionally highlighted through contrast with the material description of Odysseus’ eyes, “standing like horn39 or iron immovable between his eyelids” (211–12, ὀφθαλμοὶ δ’ ὡς εἰ κέρα ἕστασαν ἠὲ σίδηρος | ἀτρέμας ἐν βλεφάροισιν) while he is cunningly hiding his tears. Beyond Odysseus’ transformation into an old beggar, Penelope’s blur of tears and her extreme emotions also seem to prevent recognition. Her temporary “blindness” is contrasted here with Eurycleia’s visual alertness; despite also being crying, the old nurse immediately perceives the striking resemblance between the stranger and Odysseus, before recognising the scar (Od. 19.380–81; 392; 467–68).40 The coincidence of Eurycleia’s seeing and Penelope’s not seeing, central to the epic’s narrative structure, is further emphasised by the supernatural explanation that Penelope “could not see, despite being face to face, nor remark, because Athena has turned her senses away” (19.476– 79, ἦ καὶ Πηνελόπειαν ἐσέδρακεν ὀφθαλμοῖσι [sc. Εὐρύκλεια], | πεφραδέειν ἐθέλουσα φίλον πόσιν ἔνδον ἐόντα. | ἡ δ’ οὔτ’ ἀθρῆσαι δύνατ’ ἀντίη οὔτε νοῆσαι· | τῇ γὰρ Ἀθηναίη νόον ἔτραπεν).41 The emotional instability of Penelope that provokes her excessive crying and blocks her sight in Book 19 appears also in Book 23 (Od. 23.88–95):

37 Cf. the fears or warnings of Telemachus (Od. 2.376), Eurycleia (4.749), and Odysseus (19.263–64). Cf. 16.144–45, of Laertes. 38 Föllinger 2009, 28–29 classifies this weeping as “tears of yearning”. 39 Perhaps “wax”. For metrical reasons (the self-contained dactyl in the third foot seems to contradict Meister’s law), Stanford 1962, ad Od. 19.211 f. has altered the mss. κέρα into κέρα’ (= κέραα / κέραε). Van Leeuwen suggests the singular κέρας, but the only singular form in the Odyssey (12.253) means “horn of cattle”, whilst “horn”, as a hard material analogous to iron, would nevertheless be more suitable to illustrate the hero’s self-control. A connection between this material and vision appears in Penelope’s account of the two gates of dreams, where the gate through which the true visions pass is made of horn (Od. 19.562–67). 40 Eurycleia additionally uses her sense of touch (Od. 19.467): χείρεσσι καταπρηνέσσι … λαβοῦσα; 468: ἐπιμασσαμένη. As for ἐπιμαίομαι “to touch”, cf. 9.302; 441; 446. 41 The word ἀθρέω “gaze at, observe” is rare in the Homeric epics; in the Odyssey, it is used also with a negation by Odysseus reporting that, at first, he could not catch sight of Scylla on the dusty rocks Od. 12.232–33: οὐδέ πῃ ἀθρῆσαι δυνάμην· ἔκαμον δέ μοι ὄσσε | πάντῃ παπταίνοντι πρὸς ἠεροειδέα πέτρην. cf. Il. 10.11; 12.391; 14.334.

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ἡ δ’ ἐπεὶ εἰσῆλθεν καὶ ὑπέρβη λάϊνον οὐδόν, ἕζετ’ ἔπειτ’ Ὀδυσῆος ἐναντίη, ἐν πυρὸς αὐγῇ, τοίχου τοῦ ἐτέρου· ὁ δ’ ἄρα πρὸς κίονα μακρὴν ἧστο κάτω ὁρόων, ποτιδέγμενος εἴ τί μιν εἴποι ἰφθίμη παράκοιτις, ἐπεὶ ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν. ἡ δ’ ἄνεω δὴν ἧστο, τάφος δέ οἱ ἦτορ ἵκανεν· ὄψει δ’ ἄλλοτε μέν μιν ἐνωπαδίως ἐσίδεσκεν, ἄλλοτε δ’ ἀγνώσασκε κακὰ χροῒ εἵματ’ ἔχοντα. But when she had come in and passed over the stone threshold, she sat down opposite Odysseus in the light of the fire beside the further wall; but he was sitting by a tall pillar, looking down, and waiting to see whether his brave wife would say anything to him, when her eyes beheld him. But she sat long in silence, and amazement came upon her heart; and now with her eyes she would look full upon his face, and now again she would fail to know him with his wretched clothes upon his body.

The situation seems to give the optimal conditions for a visual recognition, with Penelope seated opposite Odysseus (23.89, Ὀδυσῆος ἐναντίη) with sufficient illumination (ἐν πυρὸς αὐγῇ). Odysseus, his own eyes cast down (91, κάτω ὁρόων), is waiting patiently for the results of her visual perception (92, ἐπεὶ ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν). But Penelope feels confusion (93, τάφος) for a long time, and sometimes “was gazing intently at his face with her power of sight, and sometimes not recognising him, due to his rags” (94–95, ὄψει δ’ ἄλλοτε μέν μιν ἐνωπαδίως ἐσίδεσκεν, | ἄλλοτε δ’ ἀγνώσασκε κακὰ χροῒ εἵματ’ ἔχοντα).42 It is exactly this personal affective involvement that also prevents her from feeling aesthetic pleasure in the song of Phemios about the νόστος of the Achaeans (1.328–44). She starts weeping and asks him to choose another subject instead of his present song, which is painful to her personally (340–42, ταύτης δ’ ἀποπαύε’ ἀοιδῆς | λυγρῆς, ἥ τέ μοι αἰεὶ ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλον κῆρ | τείρει, ἐπεί με μάλιστα καθίκετο πένθος ἄλαστον). Telemachus, on the other hand, argues from a more objective point of view in favour of the aesthetic pleasure (347, τέρπειν; cf. 337, θελκτήρια) that can be gained from this fashionable song (345–55). In his Rhetorics, Aristotle defines a certain distance as a condition of pity,43 which is the basis for aesthetic pleasure. Penelope’s tears and extreme emotions cloud her visual as well as her aesthetic perception.

42 As for ὄψις “power of sight, vision”, cf. Il. 20.205. 43 Arist. Rhet. 8.1386a17–24; cf. Zimmermann 2011, 492.

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Blinded by ὕβρις or ἀτασθαλίαι: the Suitors and Odysseus’ Companions While Penelope’s perception is limited by extreme love and grief, that of the suitors is disturbed by another excessive disposition, ὕβρις (at first Od. 1.368; cf. 1.227: ὑβρίζοντες).44 The word is almost an idiomatic code for this group of characters since, out of the 31 total uses in Homer, it appears in the Odyssey 26 times, 19 of which refer to the suitors.45 The suitors’ ὕβρις is qualified as ὑπέρβιος (“overweening”) or ἀτάσθαλος (“reckless”), often as part of a participial construction forming an epithet (1.368; 4.321; 16.410, ὑπέρβιον ὕβριν ἔχοντες; 4.627; 17.196, ὕβριν ἔχοντες; 16.418, ὕβριν ἔχων). Moreover, the suitors are characterised by the participle ὑπερηνορέοντες (“overbearing”) and the adjectival epithets ὑπερφίαλοι (“overbearing, arrogant”), ἀγήνορες (“manly, arrogant”), ἀγαυοί (“noble”) and ἀναιδῆς (“shameless”).46 In this way, their transgressive attitude, marked idiomatically by the prefix ὑπερ-, in overestimating their own value and underestimating the value of others is linked with their aristocratic origin. Their behaviour prompted by this attitude in Odysseus’ house is denoted as ὑπερβασίη (“transgression”) and ἀτάσθαλα (“reckless plans/actions”). Like Aegisthus’ behaviour, it can be described as “beyond fate” (ὑπὲρ μόρον, cf. 1.34). But to the same degree, they fail to perceive their own limits and the increasing risk of their situation. The suitors’ impaired cognition has a visual aspect; like Penelope, they fail to recognise the disguised hero. Immediately before there are slain, Athena transforms their mental blindness into an attack of madness that makes them see a visual foreshadowing of their murder (Od. 20.345–49):

44 While Fisher 1992, 148 defines ὕβρις as “the committing of acts of intentional insult, of acts which deliberately inflict shame and dishonour on others” (cf. 1; 493), Cairns 1996 argues convincingly for its dispositional quality. Criticising also MacDowell 1976, who understands ὕβρις as an enjoyment of excess energy that needs not to involve a victim, he differentiates it “as a way of going wrong about the honour of self and others” (32). As Cairns 1996, 2–10, points out, even Aristotle’s Rhetorics, on which Fisher’s definition is based, classifies it as an attitude, as a type of ὀλιγωρία (Rhet. 1378b14–15). In Rhet. 1374a11–17, ὕβρις and κλοπή connote προαίρεσις, in which lies wickedness and wrongdoing; acting on προαίρεσις is a sign of a vicious disposition; see Cairns 1976, esp. 2–5. 45 Cf. Fisher 1992, 151. Od., with reference to the suitors: ὕβρις: 1.368; 4.321; 627; 15.329; 16.86; 410; 418; 17.169; 565; 581; 23.64; 24.352; ὑβρίζω: 1.127; 3.207; 17.588; 18.381; 20.170; 370; ὑβριστής: 24.282. Od., other instances: ὕβρις: 14.262; 17.431 (both times of fictive companions, in a deception speech); 487 (generally, addressed to Antinoos); ὑβρίζω: 17.245 (of Melanthios); ὑβριστής: 6.121; 9.175; 13.202; (of unknown inhabitants); Cf. Il.: ὕβρις: 1.185; 203; 214; ὑβρίζω: 9.386 (ἐφυβρίζων); 11.695; ὑβριστής: 13.633. 46 One time (Od. 14.18), the suitors are called also ἀντίθεοι “godlike”.

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Ὣς φάτο Τηλέμαχος· μνηστῆρσι δὲ Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη ἄσβεστον γέλω ὦρσε, παρέπλαγξεν δὲ νόημα. οἱ δ’ ἤδη γναθμοῖσι γελώων ἀλλοτρίοισιν, αἱμοφόρυκτα δὲ δὴ κρέα ἤσθιον· ὄσσε δ’ ἄρα σφέων δακρυόφιν πίμπλαντο, γόον δ’ ὠΐετο θυμός. So spoke Telemachus, but among the suitors Pallas Athene aroused unquenchable laughter, and turned their wits away. And now they laughed with lips that seemed not theirs, and all bedabbled with blood was the meat they ate, and their eyes were filled with tears, and in their own minds they seemed to be wailing.

When Athena has clouded the suitors’ perception (20.346, νόημα), their jaws suddenly get out of control as they literally “[laugh] with strange jaws” (347, γναθμοῖσι γελώων ἀλλοτρίοισιν) and they “ate meat seemingly defiled with blood, their eyes filled with tears, and they had a presentiment of crying” (348– 49, αἱμοφόρυκτα δὲ δὴ κρέα ἤσθιον· ὄσσε δ’ ἄρα σφέων | δακρυόφιν πίμπλαντο, γόον δ’ ὠΐετο θυμός). It is not clear if the suitors can see the transformation of the meat,47 but the context, a description of their confused perception focusing on their faces, their strange jaws and their eyes blurred with tears, suggests that it could be part of their hallucinations. The seer Theoclymenus thereupon has a vision of the suitors’ approaching death.48 Blindness in the sense of ignorance of moral limits and vice is also seen in the “recklessness” (Od. 1.7, ἀτασθαλίαι, cf. the certainly loaded translation of Murray: “blind folly”) of Odysseus’ companions, introduced at the very beginning of the epic in regard to them eating the cattle of Helios as the self-inflicted reason for their ruin (Od. 1.6–9): ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ὣς ἑτάρους ἐρρύσατο, ἱέμενός περ· αὐτῶν γὰρ σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο, νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠελίοιο ἤσθιον· αὐτὰρ ὁ τοῖσιν ἀφείλετο νόστιμον ἦμαρ. Yet even so he did not save his comrades, for all his desire, for through their own blind folly they perished – fools, who devoured the cattle of Helios Hyperion; whereupon he took from them the day of their returning.

On the island of Helios, they eat the cattle of the Sun God despite Odysseus’ orders (12.339–65). For the disaster resulting of this crime (μέγα ἔργον), Odysseus uses the term ἄτη (12.372; 370–73):

47 Cf. Russo / Fernández / Heubeck 1992, ad Od. 20.348. 48 Cf. Stanford 1962, ad Od. 20.351 ff.

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οἰμώξας δὲ θεοῖσι μετ’ ἀθανάτοισι γεγώνευν· « Ζεῦ πάτερ ἠδ’ ἄλλοι μάκαρες θεοὶ αἰὲν ἐόντες, ἦ με μάλ’ εἰς ἄτην κοιμήσατε νηλέϊ ὕπνῳ, οἱ δ’ ἕταροι μέγα ἔργον ἐμητίσαντο μένοντες. » and I groaned and cried aloud to the immortal gods: “Father Zeus and you other blessed gods that are forever, certainly it was for my ruin that you lulled me in pitiless sleep, while my comrades remaining behind contrived this monstrous deed.”

ἄτη can mean both “mental blindness, folly” and “ruin, disaster”.49 It can be brought about by ὕβρις.50 There is an overlap in meanings between ἄτη and the noun ἀτασθαλίαι, which are however not synonymous, with ἀτασθαλίαι being more condemnatory.51 In Homer, the most common sense is not the presumably prior, “objective” one of “ruin”, but the “subjective” sense of “folly, blindness”.52 Whilst in one passage, this subjective usage may even signify physical blindness (Il. 16.805), it most often means a clouding of consciousness, a mental impairment, or an infatuation.53 Comparable to the vision of the suitors (Od. 20.345–49), the gods, alarmed by the angry Sun, show Odysseus’ companions a miraculous omen (Od. 12.394–96):

49 Cf. Cairns 2012, 2; Doyle 1984, 3–6. 50 Cf. Stanford 1961, ad Od. 1.33–34; cf. Sol. fr. 4.34–35 W2; fr. 13.11–16 W2; Fisher 1992, 69– 76; sees a “characteristic ‘archaic chain’ of greed” κόρος, ὕβρις, ἄτη (72); cf. also Aesch. Pers. 821–22. 51 Cf. Cairns 2012, 35–49; as for the difference in meaning between ἄτη and ἀτασθαλίαι, see esp. 46. There is also a different usage of the noun ἀτασθαλίαι (Il.: 2 times; Od.: 9 times) and the adjective ἀτάσθαλος (Il. 3 times; Od.: 15 times). While there is an overlap between the noun and ἄτη, the adjective denotes actions and dispositions that might be also described in terms of ὕβρις (see Cairns 2012, 39–40; cf. Od. 16.86; 24.352: ὕβρις as ἀτάσθαλος). The etymological link between ἀτασθαλίη and ἄτη (as deriving from τὸ τῇ ἄτῃ [or: ταῖς ἄταις] θάλλειν) is however constructed by ancient scholarship and not genuine; cf. Schol. Od. 1.34; Schol. Hes. Th. 164; Schol. Op. 239; Schol. Opp. Hal. 3.491; Apoll. Soph. Lex. Hom. 46.24 Bekker; Hsch. α 8026 s. v. ἀτασθαλίαι; Et. Gen. α 1341 s. v. ἀτασθαλία; Et. Gud. α 224 s. v. ἀτάσθαλος; Et. Magn. 162.36– 38 s. v. ἀτασθαλία etc. See Cairns 2012, 42 with n. 101. 52 Cf. Cairns 2012, 2–3 on ἄτη in the Odyssey: “mental impairment”: 4.261; 15.233; 23.223; “disaster”: 12.372; ambiguous: 21.302; forms of ἀάω in the Odyssey: 4.503; 509; 10.68; 11.61; 21.296; 297; 301; ἀάατος: 21.91; cf. ἄτη in the Iliad: “mental impairment”: 1.412; 6.356; 9.115; 504; 505; 10.391; 16.274; 805; 19.88; 91; 126; 129; 136; 270; 24.28; 480; “disaster”: 8.237; ambiguous: 2.111; 9.18; 512; forms of ἀάω in the Iliad: 8.237; 9.116; 119; 537; 11.340; 16.685; 19.91; 95; 113; 129; 136; 137; as for a table, see Cairns 2012, 9 with n. 12. 53 Cf. Barasch 2001, 33–34; Bernidaki-Aldous 1990, 53.

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τοῖσι δ’ αὔτικ’ ἔπειτα θεοὶ τέραα προὔφαινον· ἕρπον μὲν ῥινοί, κρέα δ’ ἀμφ’ ὀβελοῖσι μεμύκει, ὀπταλέα τε καὶ ὠμά· βοῶν δ’ ὣς γίγνετο φωνή. For my men the gods then at once showed forth portents. The hides crawled, the meat, both roast and raw, bellowed upon the spits, and there was a lowing as though of cattle.

On the one hand, the supernatural happening is denoted as an omen perceivable to everyone, on the other, the gods have clearly sent this vision to be visibly and acoustically perceptible specifically to the suitors (12.394, τοῖσι δ’ αὔτικ’ ἔπειτα θεοὶ τέραα προὔφαινον). The omen is the consequence of their acts of wickedness, anticipated from the epic’s beginning (cf. 1.7, ἀτασθαλίαι), signifying disaster (ἄτη) and announcing their impending death. Thus, ὕβρις and ἄτη do not only disturb perception, but also may induce a hallucinatory effect.54 An example of this understanding of ἄτη as a blindness creating hallucinations is found in Sophocles’ Ajax when Athena is confounding Ajax’ eyesight. Athena explains to Odysseus that she has stopped Ajax’ plan to kill the Achaeans and made him kill the cattle instead by confusing his visual perception (Soph. Aias 51–52, δυσφόρους ἐπ’ ὄμμασιν | γνώμας βαλοῦσα) and inducing madness in him (59, μανιάσιν νόσοις).55 The blinded and hallucinating hero is shown onstage by Athena to Odysseus as well as to the audience (cf. 69–70, ἐγὼ γὰρ ὀμμάτων ἀποστρόφους | αὐγὰς ἀπείρξω σὴν πρόσοψιν εἰσιδεῖν; 85, ἐγὼ σκοτώσω βλέφαρα καὶ δεδορκότα). Later in the play, Odysseus says that he feels pity for Ajax because he is “yoked to a terrible blindness” (121–23, ἐποικτίρω δέ νιν | δύστηνον ἔμπας, καίπερ ὄντα δυσμενῆ, | ὁθούνεκ’ ἄτῃ συγκατέζευκται κακῇ).56

54 ὕβρις and ἄτη are often metaphorically associated with a growing plant; cf. Sol. fr. 4.35 W2: ἄτης ἄνθεα φυομένα, Aesch. Pers. 821–22: ὕβρις γὰρ ἐξανθοῦσ’ ἐκάρπωσεν στάχυν | ἄτης. Plat. Plt. 310d: κατὰ μὲν ἀρχὰς ἀκμάζειν ῥώμῃ, τελευτῶσα δὲ ἐξανθεῖν παντάπασιν μανίαις, said of ἀνδρεία, but in the context of ὕβρις, 305e–11e (307b; 309a). Perhaps the allusion to exuberance of vegetation and biological growth also activates the popular etymological link between ἄτη and ἄω “satiate”. Two instances of the verbal form ἀτασθάλλω suggest that the pseudo-etymological derivation of ἀτασθαλίη from “swelling with ἄτη” was already known to the audience of the Odyssey (18.57; 19.88); see Cairns 2012, 44 with note 106; Cairns 1996, 24– 26; 28–30. Fisher 1992, 19; 120–21 with note 243; Michelini 1978, 36–44. 55 Cf. Bernidaki-Aldous 1990, 51–52. 56 Cf. Barasch 2001, 34–35.

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Blindness and the Muses: the Singer Demodocus Besides different forms of mental blindness, a physically blind character plays a key role in the Odyssey: the singer Demodocus. A disabled, perhaps blinded ἀοιδός has already been introduced in the Iliad, the singer Thamyris from Thrace (Il. 2.594b–600, Monro, D. B, Allen, T. W. edd.):

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ἔνθα [sc. ἐν Δωρίῳ] τε Μοῦσαι ἀντόμεναι Θάμυριν τὸν Θρήϊκα παῦσαν ἀοιδῆς, Οἰχαλίηθεν ἰόντα παρ’ Εὐρύτου Οἰχαλιῆος· στεῦτο γὰρ εὐχόμενος νικησέμεν, εἴ περ ἂν αὐταὶ Μοῦσαι ἀείδοιεν, κοῦραι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο· αἱ δὲ χολωσάμεναι πηρὸν θέσαν, αὐτὰρ ἀοιδὴν θεσπεσίην ἀφέλοντο καὶ ἐκλέλαθον κιθαριστύν· Dorion, where the Muses encountering Thamyris the Thracian stopped him from singing, as he came from Oichalia and Oichalian Eurytos; for he boasted that he would surpass, if the very Muses, daughters of Zeus who holds the aegis, were singing against him, and these in their anger struck him maimed, and the voice of wonder they took away, and made him a singer without memory.57

Τhe Muses had deprived Thamyris of his song since he had boasted about competing with them; in their anger, they punished him by making him πηρός, “blind” or “disabled” (Il. 2.599, αἱ δὲ χολωσάμεναι πηρὸν θέσαν).58 They additionally “took away his talent as a singer and made him forget the art of playing the citharis” (Il. 2.599–60, αὐτὰρ ἀοιδὴν | θεσπεσίην ἀφέλοντο καὶ ἐκλέλαθον κιθαριστύν). While Thamyris loses both his musical talent and his eyesight as a punishment, Demodocus seems to have received the former as a privilege and compensation for the loss of the latter (Od. 8.62–70): Κῆρυξ δ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθεν ἄγων ἐρίηρον ἀοιδόν, τὸν πέρι Μοῦσ’ ἐφίλησε, δίδου δ’ ἀγαθόν τε κακόν τε· ὀφθαλμῶν μὲν ἄμερσε, δίδου δ’ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδήν,

57 Translations of the Iliad are quoted from Lattimore 1951, 91–92. 58 See Létoublon 2010, 171–72; πηρόν is a hapax in Homer. Later on, πηρός was used with the meaning “blind” or “disabled”. As for the interpretation of the word as “blind” in the context of the legend of Thamyris, cf. Eur. [Rhes.] 921–25. Later instances of πηρός meaning “blind”: Plut. De lib. ed. 14, of a saying of Theocritus referring to the one-eyed Macedonian king Antigonus; Apollod. 3.6, of Tiresias; Ant. Gr. 9.46 (Antipater); “disabled” regarding to the mind: Semon. fr. 7.22 W2; Esser 1961, 97.

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τῷ δ’ ἄρα Ποντόνοος θῆκε θρόνον ἀργυρόηλον μέσσῳ δαιτυμόνων, πρὸς κίονα μακρὸν ἐρείσας. κὰδ’ δ’ ἐκ πασσαλόφι κρέμασεν φόρμιγγα λίγειαν αὐτοῦ ὑπὲρ κεφαλῆς καὶ ἐπέφραδε χερσὶν ἑλέσθαι κῆρυξ· πὰρ δ’ ἐτίθει κάνεον καλήν τε τράπεζαν, πὰρ δὲ δέπας οἴνοιο, πιεῖν ὅτε θυμὸς ἀνώγοι. Then the herald approached leading the good minstrel, whom the Muse loved above all other men, and gave him both good and evil; of his sight she deprived him, but gave him the gift of sweet song. For him, Pontonous, the herald, set a silver-studded chair in the midst of the banqueters, leaning it against a tall pillar, and he hung the clear-toned lyre from a peg close above his head, and showed him how to reach it with his hands. And beside him he placed a basket and a beautiful table, and a cup of wine, to drink when his heart should bid him.

The Muse loved Demodocus excessively and therefore gave him something good and something bad. The chiastic construction of the next verse (8.64), defining in reverse order the nature of the Muses’ good and bad gifts, contrasts the nouns ὀφθαλμῶν and ἀοιδήν, as well as the verbs ἄμερσε and δίδου, and marks the correlation of the two procedures, further highlighted by μέν / δέ (8.63–64, τὸν πέρι Μοῦσ’ ἐφίλησε, δίδου δ’ ἀγαθόν τε κακόν τε· | ὀφθαλμῶν μὲν ἄμερσε, δίδου δ’ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδήν).59 The expression ἀμέρδειν ὀφθαλμῶν is the only direct idiomatic reference to Demodocus’ blindness in the Odyssey.60 An adjective ἀλαός (blind, invisible) is used twice in regard to Tiresias,61 the blind seer from Thebes, whose soul is consulted by Odysseus in the Underworld. He is still endowed with reason by Persephone, just as in the case of Demodocus, as a sort of compensation for the infliction of blindness (10.492– 95, ψυχῇ χρησομένους Θηβαίου Τειρεσίαο, | μάντιος ἀλαοῦ, τοῦ τε φρένες ἔμπεδοί εἰσι· | τῷ καὶ τεθνηῶτι νόον πόρε Περσεφόνεια | οἴῳ πεπνῦσθαι; cf. 12.267).62 59 Létoublon 2010, 171; Esser 1961, 96–99. 60 Il. 13.340–41: ὄσσε δ’ ἄμερδεν | αὐγὴ χαλκείη κορύθων ἄπο λαμπομενάων, of the shining of weapons blurring the eyes; cf. Hes. Th. 698. Cf. ὀφθαλμοῦ ἀλάωσεν (Od. 1.69; 9.516). 61 The adjective ἀλαός appears also a third time in the context of Book 8 of the Odyssey (Od. 8.195), without direct reference to Demodocus, in a comment of Athena in human form on Odysseus’ victory in discus throw: καὶ κ’ ἀλαός τοι, ξεῖνε, διακρίνειε τὸ σῆμα | ἀμφαφόων (8.195–96). 62 Two versions of Tiresias’ blinding are related by Apollodorus (3.6.7). In the first, attributed to Pherecydes, Athena blinds Tiresias for having seen her naked (Pherecyd. FGrHist 3 F 92a; cf. Callim. H. 5.75–129). In the second, older, Hesiodic version, he is blinded by Hera because, having been transformed into a woman, he has disclosed a sexual female secret, and receives his gift as seer by Zeus as a compensation (Hes. fr. 275 M.-W.; Phleg. FGrHist 257 F 36 VI; Dicaearch. fr. 37 Wehrli; Callim. fr. 576 Pf.; cf. Hygin. Fab. 75 and Ovid. Met. 3.322–38). Cf. G.

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Like the behaviour of the blinded Polyphemus, the odd characteristics of Demodocus’ appearance, insofar as they are specific to his blindness, are observed in detail (Od. 8.62; 65–70). He is guided by a herald into the room (8.62, Κῆρυξ δ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθεν ἄγων ἐρίηρον ἀοιδόν = 471), then Pontonous, perhaps another herald,63 assists Demodocus by placing a silver-studded chair in the midst of the banqueters, “leaning it against a tall pillar” (66, πρὸς κίονα μακρὸν ἐρείσας; cf. 8.472–73: there Demodocus himself is leaning against the pillar). Pontonous then hangs his phorminx over a stake (67 = 105) “close above his head, and showed him [probably taking him by the hand]64 how to reach it with his hands” (68, αὐτοῦ ὑπὲρ κεφαλῆς καὶ ἐπέφραδε χερσὶν ἑλέσθαι), and finally places something to eat and to drink “next to him” (69–70, πὰρ δ’ ἐτίθει … | πὰρ; cf. 474–83). Later, the herald must accompany him out of the room (107–8: Δημοδόκου δ’ ἕλε χεῖρα καὶ ἔξαγεν ἐκ μεγάροιο | κῆρυξ) and bring him again the phorminx (254–55; 261–62, κῆρυξ δ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθε φέρων φόρμιγγα λίγειαν | Δημοδόκῳ). As opposed to the narration of Polyphemus’ behaviour after the blinding, the elaborated enactment of Demodocus’ physical helplessness has no humiliating quality to it. On the contrary, the services of the herald, ritualised by repetition (62 = 471; cf. 261a; 67 = 105; 66 = 473), transforming the phorminx into an attribute and ensuring Demodocus maximum autonomy, even consolidate the singer’s almost-divine authority among Phaeacian society (66; 473, μέσσῳ δαιτυμόνων; 262, ὁ δ’ ἔπειτα κί’ ἐς μέσον); furthermore, Demodocus’ name is paraphrased as “held in honour by the people” (472, Δημόδοκον λαοῖσι τετιμένον). The recipient does not however only watch Demodocus’ performance, but also shares the blind singer’s perspective. Demodocus performs three songs: one about a quarrel not further known between Odysseus and Achilles on the eve of the Trojan War (8.73–82), another about the love of Ares and Aphrodite (266–366), and a third about the Wooden Horse (499–520). The song about Ares and Aphrodite, setting an Olympian scene, is about hundred lines and includes a great deal of direct speech (292–94; 306– 20; 329–32; 335–37; 339–42; 347–48; 350–53; 355–56; 358); forming an epyllion, it opens a window of internal narration.65

Ugolinini, Untersuchungen zur Figur des Sehers Teiresias, Tübingen 1995, 33–42. As for the legend of the Palladion, see Létoublon 2010, 172–75. 63 Pontonous seems to be different from the herald in 8.62; 69; etc.; cf. Heubeck / West / Hainsworth 1988, ad Od. 8.65 f. 64 ἐπέφραδε means “showed”, not “told”; cf. Heubeck / West / Hainsworth 1988, ad Od. 8.68, citing Apollon. Lex. s. v. πεφράδοι (πεφράδοι διασημάνειεν. ὁ δὲ Ἀπίων ἀντείποι, τοῦ Ἀριστάρχου σεσημειωμένου ὅτι τὸ φράσαι οὐδέποτε ἐπὶ τοῦ εἰπεῖν τάσσεται). 65 Cf. Alden 2000, 2–3; Goldhill 1991, 51.

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Along with Phemius, Demodocus reflects the epic singer. Nevertheless, it is by no means clear if this character is a self-portrait of the author or if, conversely, the extrapolation of this character has inspired the legend of the blind poet.66 The first preserved trace of this legend is found at the end of the Hymn to Apollo (h.Ap. 3.165–75, Allen, T. W. ed.): 165

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ἀλλ’ ἄγεθ’ ἱλήκοι μὲν Ἀπόλλων Ἀρτέμιδι ξύν, χαίρετε δ’ὑμεῖς πᾶσαι· ἐμεῖο δὲ καὶ μετόπισθε μνήσασθ’, ὁππότε κέν τις ἐπιχθονίων ἀνθρώπων ἐνθάδ’ ἀνείρηται ξεῖνος ταλαπείριος ἐλθών· ὦ κοῦραι, τίς δ’ ὔμμιν ἀνὴρ ἥδιστος ἀοιδῶν ἐνθάδε πωλεῖται, καὶ τέῳ τέρπεσθε μάλιστα; ὑμεῖς δ’ εὖ μάλα πᾶσαι ὑποκρίνασθ’ ἀμφ’ ἡμέων· τυφλὸς ἀνήρ, οἰκεῖ δὲ Χίῳ ἔνι παιπαλοέσσῃ, τοῦ πᾶσαι μετόπισθεν ἀριστεύουσιν ἀοιδαί. ἡμεῖς δ’ ὑμέτερον κλέος οἴσομεν ὅσσον ἐπ’ αἶαν ἀνθρώπων στρεφόμεσθα πόλεις εὖ ναιεταώσας. But now, may Apollo be favorable, together with Artemis, and hail, all you Maidens! Think of me in future, if ever some long-suffering stranger comes here and asks, “O Maidens, which is your favorite singer who visits here, and who do you enjoy most?” Then you must all answer with one voice(?), “It is a blind man, and he lives in rocky Chios; all of his songs remain supreme afterwards.” And we will carry your reputation wherever we go as we roam the well-ordered cities of men.67

The passage (especially h.Ap. 3.166–67; 171–73) is known as the first allusion to Homer as an individual in antiquity. When treating the purification of Delos, Thucydides quotes two passages of the Hymn to Apollo, the second of which includes the reference to the “blind man” from Chios (Thuc. 3.104.5 Jones, H., Powell, J. E. edd.): ὅτι δὲ καὶ μουσικῆς ἀγὼν ἦν καὶ ἀγωνιούμενοι ἐφοίτων ἐν τοῖσδε αὖ δηλοῖ [sc. Ὅμηρος], ἅ ἐστιν ἐκ τοῦ αὐτοῦ προοιμίου· τὸν γὰρ Δηλικακὸν χορὸν τῶν γυναικῶν ὑμνήσας ἐτελεύτα τοῦ ἐπαίνου ἐς τάδε τὰ ἔπη, ἐν οἷς καὶ ἑαυτοῦ ἐπεμνήσθη· [h.Ap. 165–72]

66 Graziosi 2002, 13–40; 125–63. 67 Translation quoted from M. L. West 2003, 82–85.

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And that there was a musical contest also to which men resorted as competitors Homer once more makes clear in the following verses from the same hymn. After commemorating the Delian chorus of women he ends his praise of them with the following verses, in which he also mentions himself: [h.Ap. 165–72]68

In this introduction to the quotation, Thucydides explains that Homer here attests to the long tradition of the Delian festival and that, when praising the Delian chorus at the end of the hymn, he also mentions himself, as a sort of σφραγίς, in the words of Létoublon.69 Thucydides thus confirms here that in the classical period, the Hymns were regarded as part of Homer’s work. Moreover, he asserts that the legend of the blind poet was already formed long before the composition of the Vitae, originating perhaps from the presence of blind characters within the Homeric epics, in particular the blind ἀοιδός Demodocus. As previously mentioned, besides the singer Phemios another parallel with Demodocus within the epic can be seen in the figure of the blind seer Tiresias. Like Demodocus’ “poem within a poem”, Tiresias’ prophecy (Od. 11.100–37), given in the double darkness of his blindness and the Underworld (Od. 11.93–94, τίπτ’ αὖτ’, ὦ δύστηνε, λιπὼν φάος ἠελίοιο | ἤλυθες;), intervenes in the epic’s narrative structure. It recalls the wrath of Poseidon, provoked by Polyphemus’ blinding (11.101–3; esp. 103, χωόμενος ὅτι οἱ υἱὸν φίλον ἐξαλάωσας = 13.343) and foretells the Thrinacia episode in Book 12 (cf. 11.104–13a) as well as the second half of the epic (11.113b–20), as a sort of “‘table of contents’ speech”;70 it even foreshadows the hero’s death beyond the epic’s limits (11.121–37). A further reflection of Demodocus can perhaps be found in the representation of the epic hero as internal narrator. As a reaction to Demodocus’ first and last songs, Odysseus weeps (Od. 8.83–95; 521–34); the first time, he hides his face behind a coat because he is ashamed of his tears (83–85, αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς | πορφύρεον μέγα φᾶρος ἑλὼν χερσὶ στιβαρῇσι | κὰκ κεφαλῆς εἴρυσσε, κάλυψε δὲ καλὰ πρόσωπα),71 an important gesture of grief in ancient Greek culture.72 Before revealing his identity and telling of his adventures, he actually veils his

68 Translation quoted from Smith 1920, 182–85. 69 Létoublon 2010, 169–71. 70 De Jong 2001, ad Od. 1.81–95 interprets Athena’s speech 1.81–95, informing on Books 1–5, her speech 5.29–42, informing on Books 5–12, and her plan 13.393–415, informing on Book 14– 15, as “‘table of contents’ speeches”; human planning scenes can also have this orientating function. 71 Cf. Föllinger 2009, 29–30. 72 Cf. Cairns 2009, 38–40; cf. also the same gesture of Telemachus Od. 4.113–19; 153–54. As Cairns points out, veiling expresses not only a focus on others’ reactions, but also a focus on the self (45–46); the gesture marks grief as well as other rites of passage like crises of social identity (52–54).

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eyes and turns his look inside through his tears.73 The description of Odysseus’ weeping focuses on the hero’s eye area (8.86, ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυα λείβων; 521– 22, αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς | τήκετο, δάκρυ δ’ ἔδευεν ὑπὸ βλεφάροισι παρειάς; 531, ἐλεεινὸν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβεν).74 The second instance is underlined by an impressive simile of a woman mourning her slain husband, comparable to the simile of the spring thaw illustrating Penelope’s streams of tears in Book 19.75 Perhaps explicitly setting Odysseus’ story-telling during the night, when no visual perception can distract the listener’s attention, is not merely a traditional literary motif; the colourful Apologoi are narrated in one “very long, wondrous long” night at the Phaeacian court (11.373, νὺξ δ’ ἥδε μάλα μακρὴ ἀθέσφατος), and it is again in “wondrous long” nights that the hero and Eumaeus exchange life stories (15.392, αἵδε δὲ νύκτες ἀθέσφατοι). When Odysseus, finally reunited with his wife, tells her all his adventures, Athena even intervenes to prolong this night (23.241–46; cf. 344–48).

Conclusion: Blinding and Blindness as Literary Motif in the Odyssey The passages of the Odyssey treated above show not only a wide linguistic and contextual range of aspects to the motif of blinding and blindness, but also a nuanced literary technique directing the recipient’s eye to blindness and posi-

73 Goldhill 1991, esp. 36–56; see also 56–68. 74 Besides the two instances in Book 8, the phrase ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι occurs in the Odyssey only in 4.153 (Telemachus), πυκνὸν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβε, and 16.219, ἐλεεινὸν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβον (Odysseus and Telemachus). τήκομαι is only used here to directly describe Odysseus, but cf. 5.396 in a simile referring to the hero; otherwise, the verb is confined to Penelope, cf. 19.204; 205; 206; 207; 208; 264. 75 Both before and after the long narration of his adventures upon his return to Ithaca, the hero’s sight is disturbed. This time it is by divine intervention; Athena has shed a mist about him to render him unknown and give him instructions (13.189–90, περὶ γὰρ θεὸς ἠέρα χεῦε | Παλλὰς Ἀθηναίη). As a result, the hero is unable to recognise even his closest surroundings (194, τοὔνεκ’ ἄρ’ ἀλλοειδέα φαινέσκετο πάντα ἄνακτι; 197, στῆ δ’ ἄρ’ ἀναΐξας καὶ ῥ’ ἔσιδε πατρίδα γαῖαν) until the goddess, disguised as a shepherd, gives a description of Ithaca, which opens his eyes. In general, special attention is paid to Odysseus’ eyes; while transforming the hero into an old beggar, Athena inflicts on him an external eye disease (Od. 13.401, κνυζώσω δέ τοι ὄσσε πάρος περικαλλέ’ ἐόντε; cf. 433). See Trompoukis / Kourkoutas 2007, 457: “Homer refers to an eye condition that Athena inflicted on Odysseus [Od. 13.401, 433]. This gave his eyes an unpleasant appearance, although without decreasing their vision, and was accompanied by an itchy feeling (knyo = to scratch).”

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tioning his gaze from the perspective of the blind. The description of the blinding of Polyphemus in Book 9 gives an almost-anatomical close-up of the eye, gathering the vocabulary of its elements during its progressive decomposition. The narration then follows the behavioural anomalies of the blinded monster, staging his regression to the lower sense of touch in response to Odysseus’ ruse. Illustrated through the thaw simile in Book 19, Penelope’s floods of tears expressing her extreme emotions dim her visual as well as her aesthetic perception and prevent an untimely recognition. Moral blindness, in the sense of an incapability to recognise the limitations of one’s own human condition, suffered by the suitors because of ὕβρις, but also by Odysseus’ companions who bring their own disaster upon themselves through “recklessness” (ἀτασθαλίαι), has not only a disturbing but a hallucinogenic quality (Book 12; 20). These characters, who are physically or mentally blinded, are viewed from the perspective of the sighted. On the other hand, the blind ἀοιδός Demodocus draws the recipient into his perspective when his song of Ares and Aphrodite is slotted in as internal poem (Book 8), whilst the shade of the blind seer Tiresias gives a prophecy in the Underworld relating the further course of the epic. In a similar way, Odysseus weeps and hides his sight before becoming the narrator of his long story, which seems a fairy tale, but is said to be true. The recipient visualises the blinding of Polyphemus, the blind seer Tiresias, and the companions blinded with ἀτασθαλίαι through Odysseus’ eyes. The epic’s flashback technique positions Demodocus and Polyphemus, characters opposite yet obviously related through the motif of blindness, close to each other in the text, though chronologically they mark distant points in time, the beginning and the end of the hero’s wanderings. Moreover, Odysseus’ narrative, including the Polyphemus episode, is evoked and inspired by Demodocus’ songs. The motif of blindness thus interacts with the epic’s playful changes in narrative perspectives and narrative levels. The Odyssey, a text very much self-conscious in its own fictionality,76 leads Alcinous to comment on Odysseus’ tales as follows (Od. 11.362–76; cf. 17.512–21):

365

Τὸν δ’ αὖτ’ Ἀλκίνοος ἀπαμείβετο φώνησέν τε· « ὦ Ὀδυσεῦ, τὸ μὲν οὔ τί σ’ ἐΐσκομεν εἰσορόωντες ἠπεροπῆά τ’ ἔμεν καὶ ἐπίκλοπον, οἷά τε πολλοὺς βόσκει γαῖα μέλαινα πολυσπερέας ἀνθρώπους ψεύδεά τ’ ἀρτύνοντας, ὅθεν κέ τις οὐδὲ ἴδοιτο·

76 Cf. [Long.] Subl. 9.13 characterises the Odyssey as “mostly storytelling”: ἀπὸ δὲ τῆς αὐτῆς αἰτίας, οἶμαι, τῆς μὲν Ἰλιάδος γραφομένης ἐν ἀκμῇ πνεύματος τὸ σωμάτιον δραματικὸν ὑπεστήσατο καὶ ἐναγώνιον, τῆς δὲ Ὀδυσσείας τὸ πλέον διηγηματικόν, ὅπερ ἴδιον γήρως. Cf. Goldhill 1991, 37.

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σοὶ δ’ ἔπι μὲν μορφὴ ἐπέων, ἔνι δὲ φρένες ἐσθλαί, μῦθον δ’ ὡς ὅτ’ ἀοιδὸς ἐπισταμένως κατέλεξας, πάντων Ἀργείων σέο τ’ αὐτοῦ κήδεα λυγρά. …» Then again Alcinous made answer and said: “Odysseus, in the first place we do not at all suppose, as we look at you, that you are the kind of dissembler and cheat which the dark earth breeds in such numbers among far-flung humankind, men that fashion lies out of what no man could ever see. But upon you is grace of words, and within you is a heart of wisdom, and your tale you have told with skill, as a minstrel does, the grievous woes of all the Argives and of your own self. …”

Alcinous describes the Phaeacian’s double impression when gazing at Odysseus (363, εἰσορόωντες): they do not presume that he is a liar or a cheat, but with him is the “charming form of words” (367, μορφὴ ἐπέων) and he is thus compared to a singer (366, ἀοιδός). What he tells are not lies, composed from sources which no one can see, (366, ψεύδεά τ’ ἀρτύνοντας, ὅθεν κέ τις οὐδὲ ἴδοιτο) but a story (368, μῦθον), fiction. The motif of blindness therefore, operating on levels of content as well as of narrative technique, seems to reflect the text’s consciousness of the fact that in literary language, there always remains a blind spot in the relationship between referentiality and fiction, or, to quote the words of Paul de Man, that “a certain degree of blindness is part of all literature”.77

Bibliography Alden, M. (2000), Homer Beside Himself. Para-Narratives in the Iliad, Oxford. Barasch, M. (2001), Blindness. The History of a Mental Image in Western Thought, New York. Bernidaki-Aldous, E. A. (1990), Blindness in a Culture of Light. Especially the Case of Oedipus at Colonus of Sophocles, New York. Breitwieser, R. (2012) (ed.), Behinderungen und Beeinträchtigungen / Disability and Impairment in Antiquity. Oxford. Cairns, D. L. (1996), “Hybris, Dishonour, and Thinking Big”, in: JHS 116, 1–32. Cairns, D. L. (2009), “Weeping and Veiling: Grief, Display, and Concealment in Ancient Greek Culture”, in: T. Fögen (2009), 37–57. Cairns, D. L. (2012), “Atē in the Homeric Poems”, in: PLLS 15, 1–52. Constantinidou, S. (1993), “Auge/augai: Some Observations on the Homeric Perception of Light and Vision”, in: Dodone (Philologia) 22.2, 95–107.

77 De Man 1971, 141.

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Darrigol, O. (2012), A History of Optics: from Greek Antiquity to the Nineteenth Century, Oxford. De Jong, Irene J. F. (2001), A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey, Cambridge. De Man, Paul (1971), “The Rhetoric of Blindness: Jacques Derrida’s Reading of Rousseau”, in: P. De Man, Blindness and Insight, Paris, 102–41. Derrida, J. (1967), De la Grammatologie, Paris. Devereux, G. (1973), “The Self-Blinding of Oidipous in Sophokles: ‘Oidipous Tyrannos’”, in: JHS 93, 36–49. Doyle, R. E. (1984), Atē, its Use and Meaning: a Study in the Greek Poetic Tradition from Homer to Euripides, New York. Esser, A. (1961), Das Antlitz der Blindheit in der Antike. Die kulturellen und medizinhistorischen Ausstrahlungen des Blindenproblems in den antiken Quellen, Leiden. Feeney, D. (2007), Toward an Aesthetics of Blindness. An Interdisciplinary Response to Synge, Yeats, and Friel, New York. Fisher, N. R. E. (1993), Hybris. A Study in the Values of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greece, Warminster. Fögen, T. (2009) (ed.), Tears in the Graeco-Roman World. Berlin Föllinger, S. (2009), “Tears and Crying in Archaic Greek Poetry (especially Homer)”, in: Fögen 2009, 17–36. Goldhill, S. (1991), The Poet’s Voice, Cambridge. Graziosi, B. (2002), Inventing Homer. The Early Reception of Greek Epic, Cambridge. Heubeck, A. / S. West / J. B. Hainsworth (1988) A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey; Introduction and Books 1–8, Oxford. Heubeck A. / A. Hoekstra (1989), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey; Books 9–16, Oxford. Inwood, B. (2001), The Poem of Empedocles: Introduction, Text, and Translation, Revised ed. Toronto. Kovacs, D. (1994), Euripides: Cyclops, Alcestics, Medea, Cambridge, Mass. Lattimore, R. (1951), The Iliad of Homer Translated with an Introduction, Chicago. Létoublon, F. (2010), “To See or Not to See. Blind People and Blindness in Ancient Greek Myth”, in: M. Christopoulos / E. D. Karakantza / O. Levaniouk (eds.), Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion, Lanham, 167–80. Longrigg, J. (1998), Greek Medicine. From the Heroic to the Hellenistic Age. A Source Book, London. MacDowell, D. M. (1976), “Hybris in Athens”, in: G&R 23, 14–31. Michelini, A. (1978), “Hybris and Plants”, in: HSCP 82, 35–44. Most, G. (2006), Hesiod I: Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia, Cambridge, Mass. Murray, A. T. (1912), Homer: Odyssey, revised by G. E. Dimock, 2 vols., Cambridge, Mass. Russo, J. A. / M. Fernández Galiano / A. Heubeck (1992), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey; Books 17–24, Oxford. Rousseau, J.-J. (1817), Essai sur l’Origine des Langues, Paris. Smith, C. F. (1920), Thucydides. History of the Peloponnesian War, Volume II: Books 3–4, Cambridge, Mass. Snell, B. (1975), Die Entdeckung des Geistes, Göttingen. Stanford, W. B. (1961–1962), The Odyssey of Homer. Edited with general and grammatical introductions, commentary, and indexes. 2 vols., London. Trompoukis, C. / D. Kourkoutas (2007), “Greek Mythology: the Eye, Ophthalmology, Eye Disease, and Blindness”, in: The Canadian Journal of Ophthalmology 42.3, 455–59.

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Turkeltaub, D. (2005), “The Syntax and Semantics of Homeric Glowing Eyes: ‘Iliad’ 1.200”, in: AJPh 126, 157–86. West, M. L. (2003), Homeric Hymns, Homeric Apocrypha, Homeric Lives, Cambridge, Mass. Wright, M. R. (1981), Empedocles: The extant Fragments. Edited, with an introduction, commentary, and concordance, New Haven. Zimmermann, B. (2011), “Das Drama” (IX 1. 1: Ursprungsfragen, Vor- und Frühgeschichte, Organisation; 2: Die attische Tragödie), in: Id. (ed.): Die Literatur der archaischen und klassischen Zeit. HGL I, München, 451–74; 484–610.

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Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 4 and the epic gaze: There and back again The visuality of Apollonius Argonautica is complex and fascinating, and important for understanding that of later Greek and Roman epic.1 The Argonautica features in The Epic Gaze as the epic that wouldn’t, a refusenik of the epic genre, a counterexample.2 This chapter explores the particular visuality of Apollonius in more depth, by focusing on book 4 and its continuities and divergences from the previous books.3 William Thalmann, using the poetics of space, produces a reading of the Argonauts as a force for order, a representation of Greekness, closely interlinked with Greek colonisation.4 Although he is careful to bring out the negatives, the difficulties and the confusions, this is an unusually positive reading of the Argonautica, rather in the same vein as Tim Stover’s reading of Valerius Flaccus.5 Space and visuality are closely related, and Thalmann illuminates processes of gazing in Apollonius, partly drawing on, or parallelling, the work of Alex Purves.6 In contrast Sistakou’s evocation of the Argonautica as “dark epic” calls up a different visuality, one centred on darkness, fantasy and horror.7 In this chapter I re-examine gaze and vision in Apollonius by thinking about the difference between the explorers’ gaze and

1 See also Kampakoglou, this volume. On the importance of Apollonius for Virgil, see Nelis 2001. Apollonius in Lucan: Murray 2011; in Valerius (two recent interventions): Finkmann 2014, Seal 2014; in Claudian: Schindler 2005. 2 Lovatt 2013: lack of gaze of Zeus (34–5); divine viewing in comparison to Valerius Flaccus (48–9, 51, 54); epiphany and aesthetics (81); lack of prophetic madness (130); subverting ekphrasis (167–8); emptiness and the consumptive gaze (202); Medea and the evil eye (334–6). 3 On book 4 see bibliography in Hunter 2015, esp. Livrea 1973, Hutchinson 1988, 121–41, Dyck 1989, Goldhill 1991, 298–300, Williams 1991, 273–94, Harder 1994, Knight 1995, 200–7, Meyer 2001, Hunter / Fantuzzi 2004, 105–6, 123–4. 4 Thalmann 2011. 5 Stover 2012. 6 Purves 2010. 7 Sistakou 2012. Note: Many thanks to the organisers of the conference on Greek vision for inviting me, Alexandros Kampakoglou for showing me work in progress, Peter Hulse for some years of stimulating discussion of Apollonius 4, and for reading this chapter: Hulse 2015 has been a point of reference throughout this article. Finally, thanks to Richard Hunter for getting me into Argonauts. All translations of Apollonius are adapted from R. L. Hunter, Jason and the Golden Fleece: (the Argonautica), Oxford 2009. Other translations are my own. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-005

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the colonial gaze, between the outward journey and the return, between the Argonauts as objects and subjects. To what extent are the Argonauts a force for order, distinguishable from Herakles as a bringer of chaos?8 I also re-evaluate the significance of the divine gaze in book 4, where it takes on a new prominence, and explore the epiphanies of book 4. Much of the action in book 4 takes place in darkness, and I investigate the effects of this darkness. How does failure of the gaze relate to narrative control? How does the Argonautica’s play with different levels of knowledge and information relate to its exploration of visuality? Finally, I suspect that “the gaze” may not necessarily be straightforwardly visual, and I here pursue the connection between vision and the other senses in Apollonius book 4.9 First I briefly address the nature of vision and desire in the Argonautica as a whole. In a brief footnote (Lovatt 2013, 9 n. 25) I suggested that we could characterise Apollonius Argonautica as “the epic of desire”, in contrast to Nonnus Dionysiaca as “the epic of fantasy”. “Fantasy is the spectacle too full to retain meaning; desire the ever-receding absence; integration solves desire by applying fantasy; intersection sets the two against each other to make us uncomfortably aware of the whole process”.10 This follows a model of interpreting film put forward by McGowan 2007, based on the idea of the gaze as the object petit a, the unimaginable, inaccessible desire of the other, a disturbance in the field of vision. In what senses is Apollonius’ Argonautica about ever-receding absence? Both the Odyssey and the Argonautica as quest epics stage a process of deferral and delay in order to create the conditions of narrative. Odysseus’ nostos is continually deferred; even on Ithaka he must remain in disguise and his relationship with Penelope and then with the other Ithakans is still under strain (and he will leave again). Does he ever actually achieve reintegration into his home? Revenge becomes a kind of pay-off, but a disturbing one, at least for a modern audience. The spectacle of the suitors’ bodies piled up like fish (22.383–9) connects eerily with Lacan’s image of the sardine can;11 we feel ourselves potentially at sea, dead objects overwhelmed by the world around us. Apollonius’ Argonautica sets in tension two contradictory epic modes: in the one, the quest aims at the achievement of kleos, and simply setting out, gathering the heroes together, and building the ship is all that is needed to make a permanent mark on the landscape.12 In the other, the fleece itself is a

8 Thalmann 2011, 48–9; as so often, Feeney 1991, 94–8 stimulates much thought on visuality, here on Herakles as object of the gaze of the Argonauts. 9 On synaesthesia: Butler / Purves 2013; on smell: Bradley 2014. 10 Lovatt 2013, 9 n. 25. 11 An image of the world looking back at us: Lacan and Miller 1978, 91–104. 12 On kleos and Libya, see Hunter 2008, 353–5.

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symbol, but of what we are not sure; its acquisition is compromised by the manner of its acquiring and Medea’s involvement; the fact that it does not deliver to Jason the kingship for which he had hoped, or the reintegration with his family for which the Argonauts long, but rather exile with Medea, and further bloodshed and tragedy, continually overshadows the sense of accomplishment created by reaching Colchis, gaining the fleece, escaping from the Colchians and returning home. The fleece becomes an empty signifier, a signifier of emptiness. The final movement of the poem, focused on the story of Euphemos and the clod, does not build on and integrate with what has gone before.13 Thalmann suggests that the poem is “written from [this] position of obliquity, which, in its condition of being neither ‘here’ nor ‘there’, opened old understandings of space to re-examination”.14 Obliquity here refers to its writing in Alexandria, both at the centre of an empire and on the edge of Hellenism. But obliquity is also a characteristic of the female gaze: lack of power, indirectness, hostility, “looking askance”, and of the oppositional strand of epic.15 The Argonautica (and particularly book 4) is characterised by a sense of deferral and compromise; it is a poem about the journey rather than the arrival, the process rather than the achievement of the object of desire.

Desire and the fleece I start with a case study of the actual acquisition of the fleece, which brings out my key themes for book 4. The book begins in darkness, as Aeetes devises his plans all night long (παννύχιος, 4.7). Medea’s fear on leaving the city is intensified by the darkness (47–8). The Moon watches her, but does not intervene, by, for instance, lighting her way (as at Thebaid 12.291–311 at the instigation of Juno). In contrast, the Argonauts are associated with light:

13 Pace Hunter 2015, 14 who argues that the Greek colonisation of North Africa forms the ultimate telos of the expedition: “The Argonautic expedition thus assumes a significance of scale which might otherwise seem to have been lacking”. But if so this is certainly an oblique sort of teleology (and Hunter acknowledges the increasingly episodic nature of the end of book 4 (20), as well as its “Callimachean flavour” [25]), perhaps most clearly brought out by comparison with the Aeneid. Aeneas, too, is driven to North Africa, from which he only escapes with difficulty; while Italy has been prophesied and repeatedly insisted upon, Africa is the diversion which pulls the expedition and Roman history out of its path. 14 Thalmann 2011, 199. 15 Obliquity and the epic gaze: Lovatt 2013, 52 (Bacchus), 65–6 (Juno), 115, 182–4 (cloaks), 231, 282 (Achilleid), 306 (Camilla), 332–4 (Ovid and Invidia), 342 (Statius’ Pietas).

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ἀντιπέρην λεύσσουσα πυρὸς σέλας, ὅ ῥά τ’ ἀέθλου παννύχιοι ἥρωες ἐυφροσύνῃσιν ἔδαιον (4.68–9) … when she saw opposite the gleam of fire, which the heroes kept burning all night long in their rejoicing at the contest.

The darkness is emphasised by Medea’s contact using her voice, which is recognised by the sons of Phrixos; she helps the Argonauts to navigate across the river to her using repeated shouts. Medea as female other can be expected to be at home in the darkness: implied at 50–3 is the idea that witches often roam at night. The Argonauts in contrast are creatures of the light, but with her encouragement are able to use sound as well as sight to control their surroundings. In fact, they are entirely reliant on Medea not only to lead them to the fleece but even to warn them that they are about to be attacked, as the repetition of παννύχιος suggests (4.7, 69). Both Medea and Aeetes make use of the night-time, while the Argonauts enjoy corporate bonding and frivolity (or social harmony). The surreptitious and unheroic nature of the acquisition of the fleece is emphasised by its timing: Jason and Medea creep out in the pre-dawn darkness, like huntsmen afraid that light will destroy the scent they are following (AR Arg. 4.109–13). Sleep compromises the function of the eyes and must be actively “thrown off” (ἐβάλοντο, 109) and light physically intervenes with both tracks and the scent of the prey. The mention of the fleece at 123–6, now reddened by the rising sun (ἐρεύθεται, 126), draws their and our eyes to the ultimate goal, perhaps also hinting at the eroticism associated with the fleece.16 The active predatory movements of Jason and Medea, who knows the path, is set against the even more predatory gaze of the dragon with his sleepless eyes (3): αὐτάρ ὁ ἀντικρὺ περιμήκεα τείνετο δειρὴν ὀξὺς ἀύπνοισιν προϊδὼν ὄφις ὀφθαλμοῖσιν νισσομένους, ῥοίζει δὲ πελώριον· (4.127–9) But right in front the monster stretched out its vast neck keen with his sleepless eyes he saw them coming and hissed very loudly;

The power of the dragon is located not just in his powerful gaze, which unlike that of the hunters, does not sleep, but also in its enormous size and terrifying 16 On redness and eroticism, see Kampakoglou, this vol. Hunter 2015 ad loc. notes the verbal link to the cloak of Jason, which further increases overtones of eroticism and deception, through its association with Hypsipyle. Apollonius’ interest in reflected light is discussed by Hulse 2015, 97 and Zanker 2004, 62–71. Most importantly, it is used to form the marriage bed of Jason and Medea in Phaeacia (4.1141–3).

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hiss, which pervades the countryside and petrifies mothers with their newborn babies (131–8).17 The difficulty of perceiving the dragon in the darkness creates a sense of sinister illusion. Wreaths of smoke imply concealment of the full destructive potential of the snake (Arg. 4.139–44). The red glow of the fleece seems imminently about to be put back into darkness by its guardian, animate darkness itself. Medea’s prayers are the initial source of her snakecharming abilities, calling on Sleep and the queen of the underworld, the sounds themselves relaxing the snake. Her power is located in words as much as eyes, although her skills operate on the eyes of the snake to overcome its visual power, using sound, touch and scent (4.156–61). All Jason does is to follow in fear, a passive audience of Medea’s feat. As Jason finally puts his hands on the fleece, Medea’s power in the dark grove is juxtaposed with Jason’s desire for the brightness of the fleece: … λεῖπον δὲ πολύσκιον ἄλσος Ἄρηος. ὡς δὲ σεληναίης διχομήνιδα παρθένος αἴγλην ὑψόθεν εἰσἀνέχουσαν ὑπωρόφιου θαλάμοιο λεπταλέῳ ἑανῷ ὑποΐσχεται, ἐν δέ οἱ ἦτορ χαίρει δερκομένης καλὸν σέλας – ὧς τότ’ Ἰήσων γηθόσυνος μέγα κῶας ἑαῖς ἀναείρετο χερσίν, καί οἱ ἐπὶ ξανθῇσι παρηίσιν ἠδὲ μετώπῳ μαρμαρυγῇ ληνέων φλογὶ εἴκελον ἷζεν ἔρευθος. (165–73) … leaving the much-shadowed grove of Ares. And as a maiden catches on her finely-woven robe the gleam of the moon when full rising above her high-roofed chamber, and her heart rejoices when she sees its fine rays – so then Jason joyfully lifted up the great fleece in his hands, there settled a red glow like flame from the glistening of the wool on his fair cheeks and forehead.

Medea has told Jason to take the fleece (163); now he tells her to leave the grove (165–6). From the darkness of her interaction with the snake comes the unnatural brightness of the fleece, feminising Jason in his desire for it. The point of contact between simile and narrative is the light striking the clothing, and the rejoicing of both girl and hero; both are distinctly aware of their status as objects to be looked at. Jason’s fairness emphasises him as object of beauty,

17 The hiss evokes epic enormity, like the shout of Achilles at Iliad 18.20738, following as it does the powerful blaze that goes up from his head, which is likened to smoke from a destroyed city.

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as full of desire for the fleece as Medea was full of desire for him.18 His desire causes him to move from looking to touching; first he lifts it (170–1), and the text emphasises its weight (174–7); then he puts it over his shoulder and intermittently gathers it up, explicitly full of fear that it will be taken away and stroking it sensually (179–82). The light that surrounds him is red, with a mention of flame, so that the opposition between darkness and light is undercut, just as in star images.19 Despite, or perhaps because of, his desire, he seems innocent, almost child-like, rather than rapacious, in this scene. When he reaches the Argo, Apollonius describes the Argonauts as a group viewing the fleece: θάμβησαν δὲ νέοι μέγα κῶας ἰδόντες λαμπόμενον στεροπῇ ἴκελον Διός, ὦρτο δ’ ἕκαστος ψαῦσαι ἐελδόμενος δέχθαι τ’ ἐνὶ χερσὶν ἑῇσιν· Αἰσονίδης δ’ ἄλλους μὲν ἐρήτυε, τῷ δ’ ἐπὶ φᾶρος κάββαλε νηγάτεον. (184–8) The young men were filled with wonder when they saw the great fleece shining like the thunderbolt of Zeus, and each was excited, longing to touch it and to receive it in their hands. But the son of Aeson restrained the others, and over it he threw a newly made cloak.

The shining of the fleece is again represented as potentially violent, in its resemblance to the thunderbolt of Zeus, as is the desire it arouses, that must be restrained.20 The wonder of the Argonauts seems akin to religious awe, as when they experience epiphany; but the desire to touch and to hold it goes beyond that, evoking for me the desire of the Greeks to stab Hector after his death at Iliad 22.369–74: ἄλλοι δὲ περίδραμον υἷες Ἀχαιῶν, οἳ καὶ θηήσαντο φυὴν καὶ εἶδος ἀγητὸν Ἕκτορος· οὐδ’ ἄρα οἵ τις ἀνουτητί γε παρέστη. ὧδε δέ τις εἴπεσκεν ἰδὼν ἐς πλησίον ἄλλον· « ὢ πόποι, ἦ μάλα δὴ μαλακώτερος ἀμφαφάασθαι Ἕκτωρ ἤ ὅτε νῆας ἐνέπρησεν πυρὶ κηλέῳ. » (Iliad 22.369–74)

18 Hunter 2015, 104 emphasises the eroticism of the image, in its connection to Jason’s cloak (1.774–80) and Hylas’ blush (1.1228–33). 19 See Kampakoglou, this vol., on the comparison of Jason to Sirius. On the feminisation of Jason, see Bremer 1987. 20 See Hunter 2015, 107 for the fleece as “marvellous work of art”; art can be radiant, but it can also be terrifying and exert power over viewers.

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And the other sons of the Achaeans came running about him, and gazed upon the stature and on the imposing beauty of Hector; and none stood beside him who did not stab him; and thus they would speak one to another, each looking at his neighbour: “See now, Hector is much softer to handle than he was when he set the ships ablaze with the burning firebrand”.

In both cases fleece and Hector’s body represent the climax of achievement in the poem. The phrase “softer to handle” (μαλακώτερος ἀμφαφάασθαι) is appropriate for the fleece.21 The desire to touch is less aggressive than the desire to re-enact his death, but in both cases the group seek to participate in the glory of the successful individual. The intimacy of touching is for Jason alone, and he covers the fleece as one might veil a desirable woman. Jason’s speech of thanks to Medea makes sweeping claims for the fleece as more than a symbol of heroic glory: Medea is the helper not just of the Argonauts, but also of all Greece; the fate of their families and of all Hellas (202–5) apparently depends on the expedition. This is given in the voice of Jason, so follows a different line from the poet-narrator, who most often mentions Hera’s plan to take vengeance on Pelias. For instance, in passing at 4.241–3 the narrator explains the favourable wind as a means of bringing Medea as quickly as possible to Greece as an evil for the house of Pelias. However, Jason’s speech may also bring out an alternative version in which the fleece was more than an empty object of the quest, and had its own magical and religious powers that made it valuable in itself, not just a symbol of heroism and daring.22 Book 4 begins in darkness, then, which compromises the visual power of the Argonauts, who are associated with light, and makes them reliant on Medea. However the opposition between darkness as threatening and light as empowering is destabilised by the threatening light of the fleece, red, arousing desire and potentially destructive as well as powerful. The Argonauts view Medea and the fleece as a group, although Jason has his own separate subjectivity, and is also to-be-looked-at as he returns with the fleece draped over him, intimately tangled. Vision is only one sense at work in this scene: Medea uses

21 Compare 4.181 εἴλει ἀφασσόμενος, where the same verb is used of Jason stroking the fleece, and Od. 3.38 κώεσιν ἐν μαλακοῖσι, where a fleece is described with the same adjective. Thank you to Peter Hulse for this point. 22 Hunter 2015, 109 reads the fleece as «a talisman for their success and the future of their country» as the shield of Aeneas is «the fame and fate of his descendents», famaque et fata nepotum (Aen. 8.731). However, this comparison also brings out the differences between the two situations: Aeneas’ shield literally represents what will happen to his descendents, and his use of it will determine the foundation (or not) of their city. Here, Jason seems both grandiloquent and deceptive.

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control over sound and scent to neutralise the dragon, while touch is the primary mode of engagement with the fleece. Despite the fact that this is the central scene of stealing, there is little emphasis on a rapacious gaze: the Argonauts wonder at the fleece, and Jason is feminised by his desire for it.

The Argonauts’ gaze The marvelling gaze of the Argonauts as a group at the divine wonder that is the fleece is in fact fairly typical of the gaze of the Argonauts as a body in book 4. In The Epic Gaze I focused on the Argonauts as objects of the gaze rather than as subjects: Jason is an object of desire; the Argonauts are watched by women and others at moments of departure in Colchis and Lemnos, and in Phaeacia; they are watched by goddesses.23 Medea featured more as the owner of a powerful gaze, especially in her encounter with Talos.24 This section addresses the question of the subjectivity of the Argonauts. How do they gaze at the world? Is there a distinction between the gaze of the poem or poet-narrator or audience and the gaze of the Argonauts, including Jason? How do these gazes relate to the colonial gaze? Thalmann makes much of the way that traces left on the landscape by the Argonautic voyage prefigure and explain Greek colonisation of the wider Mediterranean world.25 But the Argonauts themselves are not contemplating settling, or even establishing trade relationships with the places they visit. While Odysseus is keen to make substantive material gains from his travels, the Argonauts think and talk about this aspect of travelling much less.26 How does the gaze of the Argonauts bring this out? What is the difference between the explorers’ gaze and the colonial gaze? Is there also a returning gaze? I address these questions by comparing episodes of gazing involving the Argonauts in book 4 with those in books 1 and 2. Despite the imagery which dehumanises the Colchians (numberless as waves on the stormy sea, as leaves falling from trees, ἀπειρέσιοι, 4.218; like

23 Jason as object of desire: Lovatt 2013, 265, 271; Argonauts as objects of the gaze: 229–30. 24 Lovatt 2013, 334–6. 25 On colonisation see Thalmann 2011, 77–114. 26 For instance, Odysseus hopes that the Cyclops will give him guest gifts (Od. 9.229), and brings with him the wine received from Maro (9.196–211); Phaeacian gifts more than replace all the Trojan plunder (Od. 13.135–8); imaginary guest gifts feature in Odysseus’ story to Laertes (Od. 24.273). There is one instance of successful exchange with the Hylleans at 4.526–8, in which the Argonauts give them a tripod in return for local knowledge about the route, and the ominous gifts to Apsyrtus (4.422–4), which lure him to the meeting. Elsewhere, Lycus honours Polydeuces with a gift of land (2.809–10) in return for his service of killing Amycus.

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flocks of birds, 239–40), they too leave a mark on the landscape. When Medea sets up an altar to Hekate on the Paphlagonian shore at 244–52 and the altar: ἀνδράσιν ὀψιγόνοισι μένει καὶ τῆμος ἰδέσθαι (“remains then afterwards to be looked on by late-born men”, 252), this does not straightforwardly serve as a marker of Greek possession of the landscape, since Medea has set it up, presumably following Colchian rites. Marks of the Argonautic voyage commemorate both sides of the story. But inasmuch as it is a Greek story, marks of the story colonise the landscape culturally for later Greeks. There is a separation between Argonauts and poet-narrator in perspective. For the Argonauts, and Medea, this is a temporary altar, erected to perform a particular function, which relates to their immediate survival. For the poet-narrator and for those remembering and telling stories about the Argonauts, this altar stands for Greek culture and mythology. The Argonaut story can colonise, even though the Argonauts themselves are not colonial or imperial. Similarly, when Argos offers the Argonauts a route home in their lack of direction, his cartographic gaze is not marked as Greek, but rather deriving from information left behind by Sesostris, the Egyptian conqueror who is said to have founded Colchis. Argos’ speech (257–93) preserves and emphasises the antiquity and culture of Aea and the Colchians. He represents Greek knowledge about the past, but that knowledge is of the importance of the non-Greek past. Argos’ knowledge may or may not be divinely inspired, but the corporate viewing of the omen that follows suggests, at least on this occasion, that the Argonauts are following plot and divine plan, on a level with their own story: Ὧς ἄρ’ ἔφη. τοῖσιν δὲ θεὰ τέρας ἐγγυάλιξεν αἴσιον, ᾧ καὶ πάντες ἐπευφήμησαν ἰδόντες στέλλεσθαι τήνδ’ οἷμον· ἐπιπρὸ γὰρ ὁλκὸς ἐτύχθη οὐρανίης ἀκτῖνος, ὅπῃ καὶ ἀμεύσιμον ἦεν. (294–7) So he spoke. And for them the goddess put into their hands an auspicious portent; as they saw it all shouted assent that they should take this path; for a furrow was made right through of a heavenly ray, where in fact they were to pass.

The Argonauts do not share Argos’ cartographic vision, but instead view (but also figuratively hold) an omen that points them in the right direction; they work and think together, assenting joyfully, and use the landscape as a point of orientation. They are not scanning for opportunities, or sizing up prospects; they are totally focused on finding their way.27 During the journey in books

27 Thalmann 2011, 113 points out that the Sinope episode at 2.955–61 shows the “opposite of colonial desire”.

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1 and 2, divine navigational help comes through Phineus; the view from Mt. Dindymon allows them to see the Bosphorus and beyond, offering almost a divine gaze, but certainly a birds-eye view of the landscape (1.1112–6).28 They begin by looking at landmarks as if they too know and can name them, like the narrator (1.580–608); throughout the poem it is often hard to tell if the names mentioned by the poet/narrator are intended to define where they are for the contemporary reader familiar with Hellenistic geography, or to reveal what the Argonauts are thinking about where they are. Thalmann points out that they have a less confident attitude towards the landscape and a less definite effect on the landscape after they pass through the Clashing Rocks and the further East they go.29 This gaze which uses landmarks to find their bearings is not always secure: for instance at 4.575–6 they think they see the Keraunian mountains, but that is the moment when storm-winds blow them off course, due to the anger of Zeus at the death of Apsyrtus.30 At 659–62 they keep in sight of the Tyrrhenian shores as they approach Aeaea, after the guidance of Hera (a shout in the lakes) and the prayers of Castor and Pollux, now sure again in their viewing of the route. The marvelling gaze of the Argonauts is an aspect of the explorer’s gaze, emphasising the vulnerability and powerlessness of humans outside human territory. When the Argonauts arrive at Circe’s island, they are seized by thambos at Circe and her animals, put together as if from a mixture of different limbs: τὼς οἵγε φυὴν ἀίδηλοι ἕποντο, ἥρωας δ’ ἕλε θάμβος ἀπείριτον. αἶψα δ’ ἕκαστος, Κίρκης εἴς τε φυὴν εἴς τ’ ὄμματα παπταίνοντες, ῥεῖα κασιγνήτην φάσαν ἔμμεναι Αἰήταο. (4.682–4) so these monsters shapeless of form followed her. And boundless wonder seized the heroes, and at once, as each gazed on the form and eyes of Circe, they easily said that she was the sister of Aeetes.

Their darting eyes (παπταίνοντες, 683) are set next to the powerful gaze of Circe, who astonishes them in her resemblance to Aeetes. This emphasises the mutual threat and contamination at risk in the joining of gazes. The disappear-

28 Thalmann 2011, 3–4; Thalmann’s juxtaposition of this episode with that of Eros viewing the inhabited world on his journey to Colchis (3.160–6) brings out the way that the view from the mountain creates a semi-divine perspective for the Argonauts, even if their knowledge and understanding is always imperfect. 29 Thalmann 2011, 114. 30 This uncertainty and derailment is based on Od. 10.29–30; see Hunter 2015, 160. Here intertextual authority is used to reinforce narrative uncertainty, a typically Apollonian paradox.

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ance, metamorphosis and re-emergence of the Hesperids also evokes wonder in the Argonauts (11): Ἑσπέρη αἴγειρος, πτελέη δ’ Ἐρυθηὶς ἔγεντο, Αἴγλη δ’ ἰτείης ἱερὸν στύπος. ἐκ δέ νυ κείνων δενδρέων, οἷαι ἔσαν, τοῖαι πάλιν ἔμπεδον αὔτως ἐξέφανεν, θάμβος περιώσιον. (1427–30) Hespere became a poplar and Eretheis an elm, and Aegle a willow’s sacred trunk. And from these trees their forms appeared, again certainly as they were before, an immense marvel.

Here the wondering gaze is not explicitly that of the Argonauts, but that of the narrator too; the carefully crafted sounds of 1427–8, and the chiasmus of 1427, replicate the visual beauty of the transformation.31 The Hesperids appear in response to Orpheus’ prayer and the need of the Argonauts, who are parched by thirst after carrying the Argo across the desert, and the goddesses answer their desperation with pity. This desperation is conveyed vividly in the image of the Argonauts as ants around a hole, or flies around honey, at 1452–5, which makes the Argonauts into objects of marvel and disgust as much as subjects. However, they are more interested in finding Herakles than in their encounter with the Hesperids. Their final wondering gaze is also at a god, this time Triton, described in detail as half-god, half-sea monster at 1610–18; the spiny texture of his tail and the comparison of the tail fins (or flukes) to the horns of the new moon give a striking materialisation to the description, although simultaneously creating difficulties of interpretation which add to the textuality of the ekphrasis.32 The response of the Argonauts οἱ δ’ ὁμάδησαν ἥρωες, τέρας αἰνὸν ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἰδόντες. (1618–19) and the heroes shouted when they looked with their eyes on that freakish portent.

31 Morrison 2007, 300–6 argues of the narrator in book 4 that the «decline in the narrator’s independence and self-confidence continues apace from there». This argument strikes me as too cut and dried for Apollonius: the relationship of the poet-narrator to his material varies from episode to episode. When at 303–4 Morrison argues that the narrator’s passivity is transferred onto the narrative, surely this is equally the other way round: the passivity of the characters in the narrative is attributed to the narrator. In fact he seems equally in control in his masterful display of the Argonauts out of control, the playthings of the gods. 32 See Hunter 2015, 296 for different interpretations; see LIMC s. v. Triton for similar visual representations.

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mixes wonder with terror, even though Triton has spoken to them, accepted their offering and is now guiding the Argo physically on her way. They respond to this wonder with expiatory ritual, leaving behind altars to mark their passage. The Argonauts partly form an internal audience, guiding the emotional responses of readers, while also being exposed to the dangers of what they see, themselves heroic for surviving the viewing experience. While the Argonauts generally respond to the world around them and to other people in a benign way, there are a few examples of unthinking violence. Thalmann points out that Herakles represents a chaotic and violent approach to the world in contrast to the generally careful, ordered and civilised Argonauts, in his slaughter of Ladon, guardian of the golden apples of the Hesperides (1393–409), and in the tale of his killing of Hylas’ father.33 Similarly at 1485– 501 Caphaurus, a local shepherd, tries to defend his sheep, who were being stolen by Canthus, to feed the Argonauts; first he kills the Argonaut by throwing a stone; then the Argonauts retaliate and kill him in turn, taking the sheep for themselves. They are responding to his violent gaze, but their casual appropriation of his sheep is a kind of marauding rapacity itself. The line between monster and civilising monster-killer (Ladon and Herakles, for instance) is not secure in Apollonius, reflecting the way that Greek visuality brings object and subject together in a joint connection of viewing. This blurring between monster and monster-killer is particularly brought out by the comparison of the Argo to a snake with a violent gaze at 1541–7: ὡς δὲ δράκων σκολιὴν εἱλιγμένος ἔρχεται οἷμον, εὖτέ μιν ὀξύτατον θάλπει σέλας ἠελίοιο, ῥοίζῳ δ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα κάρη στρέφει, ἐν δέ οἱ ὄσσε σπινθαρύγεσσι πυρὸς ἐναλίγκια μαιμώοντι λάμπεται, ὄφρα μυχόνδε διὰ ῥωχμοῖο δύηται – ὧς Ἀργώ, λίμνης στόμα ναύπορον ἐξερέουσα, ἀμφεπόλει δηναιὸν ἐπὶ χρόνον. (1541–7) And as a serpent goes writhing along his crooked path when the sun’s fiercest rays scorch him; and with a hiss he turns his head to this side and that, and in his fury his eyes glow like sparks of fire, until he creeps to his lair through a cleft in the rock; so Argo seeking an outlet from the lake, a fairway for ships, wandered for a long time.

33 Thalmann 2011 48: Herakles as preparing for culture, but not himself involved in it; 47– 50: contrast with the Argonauts, and the difficulties of pinning Herakles down, in myth and space; 87–9 on Herakles and Ladon. For Herakles as monster in the Hesperides’ representation, see Stephens 2003, 187.

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Herakles killed the snake Ladon, and Mopsus has just been killed in his turn by a poisonous snake. Snakes are an emblem of the countryside in which they are stranded, and other similes in the vicinity use animals typical of Libya.34 The Argo is both assimilated to its surroundings and alienated from them, just as Herakles is both monster and monster-killer. This simile is oddly hostile for its context; the evocation of Hector waiting for Achilles at Iliad 22.93–95 equally suggests both aggressor and victim: ὡς δὲ δράκων ἐπὶ χειῇ ὀρέστερος ἄνδρα μένῃσι βεβρωκὼς κακὰ φάρμακ᾽, ἔδυ δέ τέ μιν χόλος αἰνός, σμερδαλέον δὲ δέδορκεν ἑλισσόμενος περὶ χειῇ: And as a mountain snake waits for a man in his lair Having grazed on evil herbs, and dire anger holds him And he glares terribly as he coils about in his lair.

Again verbal echoes strengthen this link: εἱλιγμένος at Arg. 4.1541 echoes ἑλισσόμενος at Iliad 22.95. The Argo is both threatening and vulnerable: at Aeneid 5.273–81 Sergestus’ wrecked ship is compared to a snake with a broken back, still gazing violently (277). The desperation of the snake’s movements contrasts with its powerful gaze. The double-edged nature of Greek visuality stands out here: the Argo and the Argonauts are both subjects and objects at the same time. The Argonauts are out of place and have very little power over their surroundings, but their special relationship with the gods allows them to escape. By exposing themselves to the hostility of the landscape, they make themselves worthy of divine viewing. The North African episodes do foreshadow a prosperous colonial future, but also function as a wasteland from which the explorers only just manage to escape.35 The predatory gaze is as often turned against the Argonauts as used by them. For much of the first half of book 4 they are the objects of the searching of the Colchians, on the run and hiding. At 332 they choose an island to land on which is associated with Artemis, thus avoiding the men of Apsyrtus. After his death, Hera’s lightning restrains the Colchians from attacking them. As they pass through the Celtic lands (645–7) they are only unharmed because Hera hides them in mist. The Sirens are represented as clearly monstrous, both objects of the narrator’s gaze (given a physical description) and on the lookout for the Argonauts as possible prey:

34 Hunter 2015, 289. 35 Thalmann 2011, 78–91 on the Argonauts’ “production of space” in North Africa.

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τότε δ’ ἄλλο μὲν οἰωνοῖσιν ἄλλο δὲ παρθενικῇς ἐναλίγκιαι ἔσκον ἰδέσθαι, αἰεὶ δ’ εὐόρμου δεδοκημέναι ἐκ περιωπῆς. (4.898–900) but then they resembled partly birds and partly girls to look upon, and always watching from the look-out with its good harbours.

The marvelling gaze of the Argonauts is matched by the marvelling gaze of the shepherds inland up the Ister (316–22) who imagine the huge ships are monsters from the sea. This lack of knowledge in the audience, marking the shepherds as uncivilised, also conveys insight about the potential threat of invasion. But internal audiences in the Argonautica should not straightforwardly be mapped onto one level of knowledge or another. Here the internal audience are objects of marvel themselves in their turn for their ignorance. When the narrator marvels at the Argonauts he conveys a very different attitude; for instance, the portage of the Argo to Lake Triton inspires the wonder of the narrator at 4.1380–92. This passage emphasises the epic credentials of the Argonauts along with the authority and credibility of the narrator. The heroes are objects of our gaze through their strength and excellence, and because they have achieved things that many would consider unbelievable. They become part of the marvellous landscape through which they move, one marvel among many. How does the journey in books 1 and 2 compare in terms of the marvelling and hostile gazes? Hylas (1.1229–39), Polydeukes (2.35–44) and Jason (1.306– 11, 1.782–6) are all objects of the gaze, but mainly erotic objects. The Argonauts marvel at Phineus’ horrific state (2.206–7) and cry out at the sight of the Harpies (2.269–70). After the passage through the clashing rocks, the Argonauts gaze at the sea and the sky (2.608–9). They are helpless with amazement at the epiphany of Apollo (2.681), and exchange gazes with the ghost of Sthenelos (2.915–22). On occasion the expedition has a predatory gaze: they attack the Bebrycians like wolves, glaring around (πολλ’ ἐπιπαμφαλόωντες ὁμοῦ, 2.127) and the Argo is compared to a hawk (2.932–5, although mainly with emphasis on speed rather than vision). In short the mixture of power and powerlessness, of hostility and exploration, of marvelling and becoming objects of marvel is more or less consistent. To what extent is this part of the aesthetic of the Argonautica? The ambivalence of Apollonius matches the double-edged nature of Greek visuality, in which powerful vision equates to dangerous exposure.

The Divine Gaze When the Argonauts look out from Mt. Dindymon, they see in a similar way to Eros in book 3. As semi-divine heroes, they occasionally share in the divine gaze,

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looking down from above, with panoptic, powerful vision, and agency. I have argued that the divine gaze is a generic determinant of epic.36 The divine gaze of Zeus as ultimate force of authorisation is absent from the Argonautica; I previously argued that the Argonautica is a “text that eschews omniscient narrative, and prefers the limited perspective of its puzzled characters”.37 How does book 4 compare to earlier books in terms of the divine gaze? There are more examples of the divine gaze and of interaction with the divine than in other books. These might for the most part be minor divinities, but they play a large role in the narrative. The divine gaze is not absent but rather uneven. Hera’s presence is felt throughout, rather like that of Athena in the Odyssey, perhaps supporting the sense in which book 4 forms a new Odyssey (covering the same ground) just as the end of Book 3 forms a miniature Iliad.38 When they are about to go the wrong way, Hera intervenes with a shout (640–4); vision is implied, emphasis instead rests on movement and sound. We have seen how she uses mists to hide them as they pass through Celtic lands (647–8). When they leave the house of Circe, Hera is informed by Iris of their movements: Οὐδ’ ἄλοχον Κρονίδαο Διὸς λάθον, ἀλλά οἱ Ἶρις πέφραδεν, εὖτ’ ἐνόησεν ἀπὸ μεγάροιο κιόντας· (4.753–4) And they did not lie hidden from the wife of Zeus son of Cronos, but Iris pointed them out to her, when she noticed them going from the hall.

Similarly, Athena notices them as they set out for the Clashing Rocks (Oὐδ’ … λάθον, 2.535). Hera’s more traditional hostile gaze is found in the digression about Macris (ἔδρακε δ’ Ἥρη, 4.1137). In contrast, she sends the nymphs to the wedding cave to do honour to Jason (1151–2). The episode which begins with Hera’s vicarious gaze through Iris is a major set-piece of divine intervention (4.753–884), in which she uses Iris to muster the aid of Thetis, Hephaestus and Aeolus, in order to help the Argo pass through the Planktai. Thetis’ epiphany to Peleus alone (852–65) brings on a digression in which his mortal viewing (871–3) of Thetis trying to make Achilles immortal is so instinctively horrified and uncomprehending that she disappears like a breeze or a dream (877). The Planktai episode itself sees the Nereids turning the Argo into an object of play (948–55), while Hephaestus watches along with Hera and Athena. Further incidental moments of divine viewing include the Moon’s rather snide commentary on Medea’s flight at the beginning of the book (54–66) in which she remembers

36 Lovatt, 2013, 29–77. 37 Lovatt, 2013, 48. 38 On Odyssey and Argonautica, see Hunter 2015, 14–21.

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her own helpless and yet powerful gaze on Endymion; and Aphrodite’s rescue of Boutes at 916–19 (although there are no words of vision). There are certainly more epiphanies in book 4: not just Thetis to Peleus, and Triton to the Argonauts (as well as the Hesperides reappearing), but also the Heroines in the Libyan desert, and Apollo at 1694–730 in the Katoulas episode. The connections achieved are more effective than the results of many earlier epiphanies. At 1.1310–29 Glaucus ratifies the abandonment of Heracles; his shaggy chest and head are described (1312), but he does not act, or receive ongoing cult. In contrast the episode with Triton is much more detailed: the Argonauts offer one of the tripods given to Jason by Apollo at the Pythian oracle (4.529–33) to any god who will help them; Triton appears in the form of a young man with the gift of the clod, points out the way to them and vanishes with the tripod. In return the Argonauts make a sacrifice and perform a hymn. This prompts a full epiphany of Triton in his divine form, lavishly described by the poet-narrator (1610–6); his physical guidance of the Argo is combined with his bodily presence, and, as we saw above, both things form a marvel for the Argonauts. The encounter leads to the colonisation of Cyrene – a long-term result – as well as their short-term escape from North Africa. Similarly, if we compare the encounter of the Argonauts with Apollo of the Dawn at Thynias in Book 2 with the corresponding episode at Anaphe in book 4, we see a stronger sense of connection and effectiveness. At 2.669–719 Apollo appears incidentally on his way from the Lycians to the Hyperboreans (674–6); the poet-narrator describes him in detail, but the Argonauts themselves do not dare to gaze face to face. Orpheus encourages them to make sacrifice and rename the island, and Apollo helps them in their hunting, but the temple that remains is a temple to Homonoia. In the episode in Book 4, at 1694–1730, the Argonauts encounter total darkness in the Cretan sea; even the stars and moon are dark. This ultimate failure of the gaze, that completely undoes all possibilities of navigating, is assimilated to black chaos (μέλαν χάος, 1697) from either heaven or hell, and causes a radical sense of disorientation and lack of knowledge among the Argonauts (1699–701). They are all now ἀμηχανέοντες (helpless, without a plan, 1701). Jason uses his loud voice, as he does in Syrtis to call on Apollo, promising offerings. Apollo comes and holds his bow in his right hand, sending out light from it (1706–10). The revelation brings land and dawn; the island is renamed Anaphe, and from the dialogue between the Argonauts and the Phaeacian maids comes an ongoing cult of Apollo. In Book 2 Apollo dazzles the Argonauts; in Book 4 he enables their gaze. In Book 2 he passes them by, in Book 4 he deliberately comes to their aid. The emphasis in the cult of Book 2 is on the Argonauts themselves, in Book 4 on the worship of Apollo.

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Perhaps the ultimate difference between Book 4 and the earlier books is more in exaggerated polarisation, where complete blackness and chaos is contrasted with brilliant light. So the Argonauts are driven much further out of their way by divine anger and helped much more aggressively by divine aid. But in other respects the narrative drive is not very strong, as they wander without much sense of direction and there is no great confrontation on the horizon. Hunter finds Book 4 “experimental”, characterised by “eerie otherworldliness”, and a “powerful sense of improvisation and randomness”.39 It is anti-Odyssean, as well as ultra-Odyssean, by finishing with travels and adventures rather than home and battles.40 The most significant intertextual models, apart from the Odyssey, are found in tragedy and cyclic epic.41 The dominance of Hera’s plan, complicated by Zeus’ punishment for the death of Apsyrtus, displays a decentring of the epic gaze.

Into the dark The episode of extreme darkness at Anaphe is the climax of the dark encounters of the Argonauts in book 4. But how dark is book 4 in comparison to other books? Is the Argonautica really a particularly dark poem? How does darkness relate to knowledge, power and their limits? We have seen the extensive night (or at least, pre-dawn) episode in which Medea confronts the dragon and Jason acquires the fleece. Darkness here is associated with trickery and sorcery, as well as danger. The next night episode is equally dark. When Medea sets out to entrap Apsyrtus, her initial message suggests to him that they should meet at night, so they can plan tricks against the Argonauts together (νυκτός τε μέλαν κνέφας ἀμφιβάλῃσιν, “the black darkness of night should surround them”, 4.437). Apsyrtus arrives “in the shadowy night” (νύχθ’ ὕπο λυγαίην, 458). Clearly Apsyrtus is at a disadvantage because the Argonauts are hidden from him (452–4), and Jason attacks him from ambush (454–5, 464). Medea turns her

39 Hunter 2015, 3. 40 Or one might see the Argonautica as a successor of the experimental aesthetic of the socalled “continuation” of the Odyssey in the last book and a half, in which more aggressive divine intervention (Athene as dea ex machina) puts an end to a potentially infinite cycle of vengeance. 41 On the final line of the Argonautica the Σ scholia make a link with cyclic epic: see Fantuzzi / Tsagalis 2015, 4. The scholia view the Argonautica as cyclic in both time and space, in the way it returns to its point of origin.

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eyes aside and veils herself to avoid pollution and complicity in the attack (αἶψα δὲ κούρη | ἔμπαλιν ὄμματ’ ἔνεικε, καλυψαμένη ὀθόνῃσιν, “immediately the girl turned her eyes aside, hiding them with her veil”, 465–6), but the touch of his blood is equally effective at implicating her. The interplay of sight and power is complicated by darkness, but it also has other implications. Atmosphere is at stake: the figure of the watching Fury at 475–6 further intensifies the mood of horror. After the murder the use of a torch as a signal reminds us of the darkness, and the Argonauts carry out a night massacre of the Colchians: Οἱ δ’ ἄμυδις πυρσοῖο σέλας προπάροιθεν ἰδόντες τό σφιν παρθενικὴ τέκμαρ μετιοῦσιν ἄειρεν, Κολχίδος ἀγχόθι νηὸς ἑὴν παρὰ νῆα βάλοντο ἥρωες, Κόλχoν δ’ ὄλεκον στόλον, ἠύτε κίρκοι φῦλα πελειάων ἠὲ μέγα πῶϋ λέοντες ἀγρότεροι κλονέουσιν ἐνὶ σταθμοῖσι θορόντες· οὐδ’ ἄρα τις κείνων θάνατον φύγε, πάντα δ’ ὅμιλον πῦρ ἅτε δηιόωντες ἐπέδραμον.(4.482–89) Now the others together saw the blaze of a torch, which the maiden raised for them as a sign to come, they moored their own ship beside the Colchian ship, and slaughtered the Colchian host, as hawks slay the tribes of wood-pigeons, or as wild lions, when they have leapt into the stable, tumultuously drive a great flock of sheep. Not one of them escaped death, but they rushed upon the whole gathering, destroying them like fire;

The flash of the torch evokes the fire of the Argonauts as Medea finds them at the beginning of the book, and the effective communication in the dark suggests that they have now become like her, characters of the night. They are still associated with light, but now with fire that destroys. Just as when they attacked the Bebrykians, like wolves massacring sheep, now they are birds of prey or lions while the sheep huddle together in the stable. The addition of the bird to this image creates a stronger sense of predatory gaze. These images evoke the Iliad (5.161–2 – leaping lions; 15.323–5 – flock of sheep; 22.134–44 – hawk and dove) but the implication of the night setting and the lack of resistance from the enemy is that we have here a disturbing repetition of the night raid in Iliad 10.42 Finally Peleus evokes the cover of night (νύκτωρ ἔτι, 495)

42 On the visuality (and morality) of the Doloneia, see Hesk 2013.

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when exhorting the Argonauts to take cover further up the river and hope that the remaining Colchians disperse when they discover the massacre.43 The obvious night battle in Books 1 and 2 is the fiasco at Kyzikos (1.1012– 77); in that case the battle is caused by the darkness and the Argonauts’ lack of knowledge. They do not intend to use the darkness as a means of attack, but are confused about where they are, and are attacked by their former hosts. Intention is clearly very important, and while the Bebrykians have caused their own downfall by supporting Amycus, and the Doliones are as much at fault as the Argonauts, the Colchians are treated for the most part in a sympathetic manner, made victims by both Aeetes and the Argonauts. When the anger of Zeus is revealed through the voice of Argo, they are facing a storm, and the gloom characterises their mood at this point: Ὧς Ἀργὼ ἰάχησεν ὑπὸ κνέφας, “So Argo cried through the darkness”, 592). This dark colouring is continued by the story of Phaethon as they proceed up the Eridanus; the lake vomits foul-smelling steam from the fiery wound of dead Phaethon, intensified by the eternal mourning of his sisters, and Apollo (597–626). The Argonauts themselves share this sense of despair and are affected by the sights, sounds and smells of the landscape, read through the myth of Phaethon. Similarly, smoke and darkness (and lack of understanding) characterise Peleus’ memory of his split with Thetis (865–81). The Planktai, too, are associated with the forges of Hephaestus, which Hera asks him to shut off, and flames shoot from the rock, smoke blotting out the rays of the sun (925–8). The terror of imminent death is augmented by inability to see, and a lack of knowledge about what is happening. Even Phaeacia, bright and welcoming in the Odyssey, has a substantial portion of night action, of a rather different sort: for Arete’s bed-time dialogue (ἐνὶ λεχέεσσι διὰ κνέφας, “in bed through the night”, 1071) with her husband about passing judgement on the case of Medea and the Colchians necessitates an immediate wedding at night (αὐτονυχί, “that very night”, 1130). The light from the fleece goes some way towards dispelling the darkness (1142, 1145), but the return of dawn at 1171–2 reminds us that this has been a night episode, just as the final comment on their state of mind reminds us of the doubleedged emotions associated with their marriage (joy and desire, but also fear and sorrow).44

43 Hunter 2015, 150 draws a strong contrast between the heroism of the Argonautic group and the furtiveness of Jason, who comes late to the “pitched battle”; but to me the crew are implicated in the darkness. 44 On the light of the fleece and the darkness of the action, see Hulse 2015, ad 47–9, 167–86. A comparable illumination occurs at Euripides Bacchae 608–11. See also Rood 2014, 73.

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In this sense, we might perhaps agree with Sistakou (2012, 60) in taking the night episode at Anaphe as a “eucatastrophe”/happy ending, although calling it the “decisive turning point towards the final success” seems a little too strong. Each time when they find their way again, get through the Planktai, find lake Triton, escape from lake Triton, destroy Talos, get through the darkness: each of these episodes could have resulted in the end of the expedition and the failure of the quest. But certainly this is the last episode of darkness and although it is in some ways the most intense, it also dispels darkness for the rest of the poem. Book 4 is a relatively dark book: about 25 % of the lines take place in darkness, in comparison to about 10 % in book 1.45 Frequently in Books one and two (20) the Argonauts successfully travel on through the night (1.600; 1.924– 35; 1.1359; 2.660–1; 2.945; 2.1260–1, with reference to skill of Argus). In Book four they do so twice (4.979–80; 4.1629–35). They have, of course, lost their original choice of helmsman, Tiphys, who dies at 2.851–62, with only a third of Book 2 to go. He has guided them for most of the outward journey: but it is the skill of Argos which is mentioned as they arrive in the night at the river Phasis. The outward journey is punctuated by battles and encounters, but they do not on the whole deviate far from their route; the return journey takes them throughout most of the Mediterranean world, and contains several episodes of navigational despair. Darkness does not just create atmosphere, it also thematises the failure of vision, lack of knowledge and the limitations of the gaze. If gaze is fundamentally about knowledge and power, then failure of vision implies lack of knowledge and powerlessness. In Book 4 particularly, the Argonauts are at the mercy of the landscape and the gods, able to take agency over their own fate only by interacting effectively with the divine. When they land at Syrtis, they can see no way to escape, no signs of habitation, and no way to get food or drink:46 οἱ δ’ ἀπὸ νηὸς ὄρουσαν, ἄχος δ’ ἕλεν εἰσορόωντας ἠέρα καὶ μεγάλης νῶτα χθονὸς ἠέρι ἶσα τηλοῦ ὑπερτείνοντα διηνεκές· οὐδέ τιν’ ἀρδμόν, οὐ πάτον, οὐκ ἀπάνευθε κατηυγάσσαντο βοτήρων αὔλιον, εὐκήλῳ δὲ κατείχετο πάντα γαλήνῃ. (1245–9)

45 In these calculations I included evening episodes and storm episodes, but not night dreams or dawn episodes. It is not always clear where to divide day from night, and whether to include other types of darkness, but I tried to follow the emphasis of the text on light and darkness. 46 The lack of food and drink is a strong contrast with the similar passage at Odyssey 9.116– 65 (goat island); cf. also Od. 5. 403–8.

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And they darted from the ship, and sorrow seized them when they gazed on the mist and the levels of vast land stretching far like a mist and continuously into the distance; no watering place, no path, no dwelling of herdsmen did they gaze upon far away, but the whole was possessed by a silent calm.

This failure to see is a fundamental failure of knowledge. They do not know where they are or how to deal with their situation. Ankaios’ despairing speech also characterises their predicament in visual terms: he can see no way out: ἐπεὶ τεναγώδεα λεύσσω τῆλε περισκοπέων ἅλα πάντοθεν, ἤλιθα δ’ ὕδωρ ξαινόμενον πολιῇσιν ἐπιτροχάει ψαμάθοισι· (1264–6) for, as I gaze far around, on every side I spy out a sea of shoals, and masses of water, fretted line upon line, run over the hoary sand.

The despair of the Argonauts is represented through a multiple simile in which they are compared to men like ghosts (not fully visible) as they wait for destruction by war, plague or storm, and respond to terrifying visual portents (bleeding statues, eclipse) (1277–92). The images vividly portray lack of agency along with lack of knowledge, as well as the mood of despair. The resolution of this episode is also presented in visual terms: first the epiphany of the Heroines to Jason, in which he is favoured by their visibility to him alone (1308–31); second the portent of the horse from the sea, interpreted by Peleus (1365–79). Similarly, once they arrive at Lake Triton after carrying the Argo across the desert, the indirect salvation received from Herakles who has left behind a spring is offset by the failure of the miraculous gaze of Lynceus to apprehend him (1476–80). The knowledge that Lynceus acquires is the knowledge that they should not search for Herakles again; the simile, which describes his inability to see and understand where Herakles is, hints at apotheosis, but the narrator does not give the readers any further information than the Argonauts in this case. Instead he substitutes an aition about Polyphemus founding a city, information which is not presented to Canthus who is looking for him. Book 4, then, is a dark book, although it ends with a restoration of gaze and light at Anaphe and the powerful gaze of Medea, defeating Talos. These two episodes of the powerful gaze that round off the book are in contradistinction to each other: although for now Medea aids the Argonauts in their return, she forms an alternative source of light and visual power, as the grand-daughter of the sun, whose beneficence cannot be relied upon.

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Vision and other senses The gaze is most importantly conceptualised as the relationship between knowledge, power and vision. However, words used about lines of visual power in the plot are not always words of vision, but often words of knowing and perceiving. The gods look down from Olympus on events in the Iliad but they also hear the din caused by the clash of arms. The text of Apollonius is rich in interactions between vision and other senses, often in contexts of knowledge and power. In book four there are several episodes in which powerful connections are created through other senses, often with elements of the uncanny – a sort of non-visual gaze.47 Touch, for instance, is often combined with viewing in the gaze of desire.48 Touch and the desire to touch is certainly an important part of the erotic magic of the fleece. When Jason has finally laid hold of it, he carries it sensuously and possessively (179–82, 185–6). The Argonauts too are overwhelmed by desire to touch. Gaze creates desire to touch, and touch creates desire to keep. When Jason and Medea use the robe of Hypsipyle to seduce Apsyrtus to his death, the description of it emphasises the connection between gaze, touch, scent and desire: οὔ μιν ἀφάσσων οὔτε ἄεν εἰσορόων γλυκὺν ἵμερον ἐμπλήσειας· τοῦ δὲ καὶ ἀμβροσίη ὀδμὴ πέλεν ἐξέτι κείνου (428–30) Never could you satisfy your sweet desire by touching it or gazing on it. And from it a divine fragrance breathed

As well as her persuasive words and gifts to Apsyrtus, Medea adds θελκτήρια φάρμακα (“enchanting drugs”, 442) which she scatters on the breezes, which have compelling power to draw animals from the mountains; it seems highly likely that these pharmaka too operate by scent. Three senses (touch, sight and smell) combine to persuade and deceive Apsyrtus, hinting perhaps at an incestuous desire for his sister. Similarly, in the cave at Peuce the nymphs feel an uncanny desire at the sight of the fleece and long to touch it (1143–8). A negative olfactory stimulation also creates a powerful emotional response in

47 A theory of haptic visuality has been developed by Marks 2002; see also Marks 1999. Marks argues that images which invite a haptic look are often grainy and distorted and suggest an inability to see; the haptic look rests on the surface rather than penetrating into the image. The oscillation between visual mastery and loss of power and control is particularly appropriate for reading Apollonius. 48 On the haptic gaze in Apollonius, Alex Purves presented a paper at the Classical Association conference, Nottingham, 2014. See also Purves 2014.

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the Argonauts when they pass the site of Phaethon’s smouldering body (620– 6). The combination of foul smell and sharp lament deprives them of joy and agency; here again Apollonius plays with levels of knowledge. While the poet narrator juxtaposes two aetia for amber for his readers, the Argonauts are simply afflicted by unexplained misery, as if drifting through the poem without being fully part of it, perceiving signs with the senses and responding emotionally, without necessarily understanding or even interpreting those signs. This can be compared to the moment when they pass Thrinakia, where first they hear the bleating of the sheep and lowing, then view the cattle of the sun (968– 9). Again there is no sense that they are aware of the significance of what they see, or of the danger to their nostos, but here there is no emotional response either. Inarticulate sound as distinct from words can have something of the same effect as smell or sight, in that it carries an emotional charge without a precise meaning. So Jason’s roar at 1337–43 generates paradoxical effects, both terrifying, and to the Argonauts potentially reassuring, just as the barking of a dog can be both fierce and protective. Where Achilles’ shout in Iliad 18 throws the Trojans into panic and even causes death, Jason’s shout brings his men together. Jason’s shout, like Medea’s gaze at Talos, and the scent of her pharmaka in the Apsyrtus episode, has force, power, almost agency. It is not what he says that causes action, but the sound itself. Similarly, the battle of music between the Sirens and Orpheus is a continuation of force by unusual means, not unlike the battle of the gaze between Achilles and Hector in Iliad 22: παρθενίην δ’ ἐνοπὴν ἐβιήσατο φόρμιγξ (“the lyre overcame the maidens’ voice”, 909) Music fills their ears like wax, here giving sound a sort of materiality.49 These examples help to define what it is about certain sorts of viewing that constitutes “the gaze”: power, knowledge, agency and an uncanny ability to affect events, people, emotions at a distance.

Conclusions Apollonius Argonautica has a rich and fascinating visuality. In some ways Book 4 is an extension of earlier books, but there are differences of degree and emphasis. The Argonauts are not really colonists, or even explorers, on the return journey; they maraud very little, and are hardly rapacious at all. In comparison, the much more directed travelling towards a specific goal in Books 1–

49 Butler / Purves 2014 present various intersections of the different senses in antiquity, but haptic sound remains an area in need of further research.

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2 calls for a powerful cartographic gaze. In Book 4, their gaze fails frequently; darkness is perceptibly more dominant. Rather they marvel passively as they attempt to escape from one difficult situation after another, less focused on material gain and glory than Odysseus, but instead often unaware of dangers and glories both. Levels of knowledge and control vary like levels of light from place to place and moment to moment: and their eventual return is disconcertingly sudden. There is a sensuality to Greek vision; we might say that Apollonius, particularly Book 4, is characterised by a haptic visuality. Viewers, and perceivers, both in the text and outside are often at a loss and unable to understand the deeper significance of events and perceptions. The intrusive texture of Apollonian poetry disturbs and confuses; there is an oscillation between power, control, success, light and disempowerment, helplessness, confusion and darkness.

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Livrea, E. (1973), Apollonii Rhodii Argonauticon liber quartus, Florence. Lovatt, H. V. (2013), The Epic Gaze: Vision, Gender and Narrative in Ancient Epic, Cambridge. Marks, L. U. (1999), The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment and the Senses, Durham, NC. Marks, L. U. (2002), Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media, Minneapolis. McGowan, T. (2007), The Real Gaze: Film Theory after Lacan, New York. Meyer, D. (2001), “Apollonius as a Hellenistic Geographer”, in: Th. D. Papanghelis / A. Rengakos (eds.), A Companion to Apollonius Rhodius, Leiden, 217–36. Morrison, A. D. (2007), The Narrator in Archaic Greek and Hellenistic Poetry, Cambridge. Murray, J. (2011), “Shipwrecked Argonauticas”, in: P. Asso (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Lucan, Leiden, 57–80. Nelis, D. (2001), Vergil’s Aeneid and the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, Chippenham, Wiltshire. Purves, A. C. (2010), Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative, Cambridge. Purves, A. C. (2014), “Haptic Herodotus”, in: Butler and Purves (2014) 27–42. Rood, T. (2014), “Space and Landscape in Xenophon’s Anabasis”, in: K. Gilhuly / N. Worman (eds.), Space, Place and Landscape in Ancient Greek Literature and Culture, Cambridge, 63–93. Schindler, C. (2005), “Claudians ‘Argonautica’: Zur Darstellung und Funktion des Mythos zu Beginn des Epos de bello Getico (1–35)”, in: A. Harder / M. P. Cuypers (eds.), Beginning from Apollo. Studies in Apollonius Rhodius and the Argonautic Tradition, Leuven, 107– 23. Seal, C. (2014), “Civil War and the Apollonian Model in Valerius’ Argonautica”, in: Augoustakis (2014), 113–36. Sistakou, E. (2012), The Aesthetics of Darkness: A Study of Hellenistic Romanticism in Apollonius, Lycophron and Nicander, Leuven. Stephens, S. (2003), Seeing double: Intercultural poetics in Ptolemaic Alexandria, Berkeley. Stover, T. (2012), Epic and Empire in Vespasianic Rome: A New Reading of Valerius Flacus’ Argonautica, Oxford. Thalmann, W. G. (2011), Apollonius of Rhodes and the Spaces of Hellenism, Oxford. Williams, M. F. (1991), Landscape in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, Frankfurt. Zanker, G. (2004), Modes of Viewing in Hellenistic Poetry and Art, Madison, Wisconsin.

Alexandros Kampakoglou

Gazing at heroes in Apollonius’ Argonautica Introduction Seeing is ubiquitous in Apollonius’ Argonautica. Throughout the epic, characters see, admire, avert their eyes from a blinding or terrifying spectacle and, in so doing, function as internal audiences and spectators. The Argonauts arrive or progress through public spaces being watched by crowds or individualised viewers. The relatively limited action in which the Argonauts engage means that such optic perceptions are central to the construction of their identity and role.1 Against this background, the following discussion examines what I call “heroic epiphanies” and their audiences. As I will argue, scenes in which Jason or his comrades are admired by a crowd of onlookers contain traditional motifs that communicate the special position that the Argonauts, and particularly Jason, hold as heroes–that is, as divinely supported charismatic mortals, separated from the average mortal men or women who watch them. Although Apollonius’ heroes do not engage in military pursuits to the degree of their Homeric counterparts in the Iliad or the Odyssey, the way internal audiences react to the presence of the Argonauts indicates the latter’s potential or promise of heroic prowess in a manner similar to that of the great heroes in archaic epic. In addition to this, heroic epiphanies are the means by which Jason in particular thwarts the potentially dangerous gaze of female viewers such as Hypsipyle or Medea. In order for Jason to secure the Golden Fleece, he must subdue female figures, resorting to an aspect of epic heroism that is not well represented in archaic epic.2 Ultimately, appreciating the figure that Jason and his comrades cut in the Argonautica provides an insight into Apollonius’ model of epic hero.

1 Apollonius imitates Homer in this respect: embedded audiences in the Iliad also produce striking effects, emphasising a man’s heroic greatness; cf. Griffin 1978, 18 n. 57. 2 Cf. Beye 1969, 44–45, Goldhill 1991, 313. For “gaze” as an expression of control and power and its connection with “active” heroism, see Grethlein, this volume, 39–49. That Apollonius would associate this function of gaze with female characters instead of male ones is a further indication of the gender role reversal that permeates the Argonautica. Note: I am grateful to Helen Lovatt for useful comments on an earlier version of this chapter. All translations are my own except where otherwise indicated. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-006

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Viewing and Status In their first appearance as a group the Argonauts seem like “bright stars that shine in the clouds” (1.239–40, οἱ δὲ φαεινοί | ἀστέρες ὣς νεφέεσσι μετέπρεπον), a comparison that conveys their heroic or semi-divine status, especially in Ptolemaic times.3 Fränkel (1968, 56 ad loc.) notes that the simile is of Homeric provenance.4 There is, nonetheless, a considerable difference in context between Apollonius’ description of the Argonauts and the comparison of Hector to “an all-shining bale star that shines forth from the clouds” (Il. 11.62–63, οἷος δ’ ἐκ νεφέων ἀναφαίνεται οὔλιος ἀστὴρ | παμφαίνων). Hector’s brilliance is occasioned by his armour, which sets him apart from other warriors;5 it intimates his military prowess which, from the perspective of the Greek soldiers, is an ominous sign, conveyed by the use of oulios. Inasmuch as gods may appear as bright stars,6 such similes convey the extraordinary, almost divine, potential of heroes such as Hector, Diomedes, and Achilles,7 a potential which is expressed as an overpowering, blinding brilliance.8 In Apollonius, the brilliance of the Argonauts emanates from their bodies, a sign of their superior, semi-divine nature, rather than from their weapons.9 In spite of this difference, 3 For the importance of katasterismoi in Ptolemaic apotheoses, see Kampakoglou 2013, 319– 23. One should also note in this regard the sacrifices Aristaeus offers to the stars at A. R. 2.523– 24. 4 Cf. Beye 1969, 43, Levin 1971, 38, Newman 1986, 83–84, Nyberg 1992, 22–24, Clauss 1993, 122, Knight 1995, 241. 5 Cf. e.g. Il. 2.455–58, 577–80, 4.431–32, 6.319–20, 6.513, 9.596, 10.153–54, 11.44–45, 11.65–66, 13.240–45, 13.265, 13.340–43. 6 Cf. Il. 4.75–77; Hymn Hom. Ap. 440–42. 7 Cf. Il. 19.381 and 22.317–21 for Achilles, and 5.4–6 for Diomedes; see also Whitman 1958, 167, Reitz 1996, 17–18. Polydeuces is compared to a star before his duel with Amycus (2.40–45). Jason appears like an all-shining star (astera pamphanoōnta) that abducts Medea in the Orphic Argonautica (781–85). 8 Cf. Whitman 1958, 132–46. Use of this imagery is not limited to epic. For instance, in Sophocles’ Electra, this motif is claimed for Orestes at two crucial moments: first, when Orestes returns to Argos and prays for the success of his enterprise (66, δεδορκότ’ ἐχθροῖς ἄστρον ὣς λάμψειν ἔτι), and second, in the false narrative about Orestes’ appearance in the Pythian Games (685, εἰσῆλθε λαμπρός, πᾶσι τοῖς ἐκεῖ σέβας). Both moments foreshadow Orestes’ ultimate success, intimating his heroic potential at significant moments. Furthermore, they exhibit the interrelationship between military and epinician discourses. On the epinician use of the imagery, see Duchemin 1955, 193–228, Finley 1966, 53–56. 9 As, for instance, at Orphic Arg. 803–5: Aeetes views for the first time the gathered Argonauts “similar to the gods; for their weapons shone around their limbs” (ἀθανάτοις ἰκέλους· περὶ γάρ ῥά ἑ τεύχεα λάμπε). See, however, A. R. 2.1069–71: Apollonius calls attention here to the shining bronze helmets of the Argonauts and the red plumes waving on them. The combination of colours is suggestive of heroic prowess as the Argonauts prepare to face the birds of Ares.

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the motif retains its traditional meaning. In a manner similar to that of Homeric warriors, the brilliance of the Argonauts conveys their heroic status that distances them from the male population watching them pass by.10 The gaze of this embedded audience constitutes the first demonstration of the interconnection between viewing and establishing status, with the men of Iolcus regarding the assembled Argonauts as a “company of heroes” (1.242–43, ὅμιλον ἡρώων). This description confirms the previous triple designation of the Argonauts as heroes by the narrator (20–21, 124, 195–96), and suggests that the Argonauts are categorised in terms distinct from those of average men.11 Jason appears on his own (1.306–17), and this isolation suggests his special position among the Argonauts. Jason surpasses his comrades by appearing like Apollo when he visits one of his cult centres (1.306–9): Ἦ, καὶ ὁ μὲν προτέρωσε δόμων ἒξ ὦρτο νέεσθαι. οἷος δ’ ἐκ νηοῖο θυώδεος εἶσιν Ἀπόλλων Δῆλον ἀν’ ἠγαθέην ἠὲ Κλάρον, ἢ ὅγε Πυθώ ἢ Λυκίην εὐρεῖαν ἐπὶ Ξάνθοιο ῥοῇσι And he set off from his home, similar to Apollo when he leaves his fragrant temple for Delos or sacred Claros, Pytho even, or wide Lycia upon the stream of Xanthus.

Such lists of cult centres are typical of hymns (e.g. Hymn. Hom. Ap. 179–81) and resurface in the descriptions of the public appearances of Aeetes (3.1240– 45) and Medea (3.876–86) in Book 3; Aeetes is thus compared to Poseidon, Medea to Artemis.12 In contrast to the case of the Colchian King and his daughter, who are both descendants of Helios (4.727–29), the genre tradition that Apollonius evokes in his presentation of Jason is incongruous with his mortal status. Still, hymnic discourse is marshalled to embellish the comparison and convey Jason’s unique status amidst his comrades. Green (2007, 205 ad loc.)

10 Cf. Fränkel 1968, 56 ad 240–47. 11 The Argonauts have not yet engaged in any meaningful action that would merit the designation of them as “heroes”. Any heroic credentials that Apollonius attributes to them up to this point are predicated on their divine parenthood, their previous exploits, or their desire to win kleos, and point to their future promise in the epic. Occassionally the use of hērōs instead of aristeus acknowledges the traditional association of heroism with military prowess; for instance, hērōes frames the fight of the Argonauts with the gēgeneis (1.1000–12), while hērōas appears at 1055 in connection with the battle against the Doliones and the killing of Kyzikos. Heracles is called hērōs for the first time in the context of the Amazonomachia (2.967). 12 Cf. 4.1704–5 for cult centres embedded in a prayer to Apollo, followed by an epiphany of the same god. Cf. Call. fr. 75.22–27 Harder.

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however argues that this comparison is ironically undermined by the indifference with which Jason’s arrival is greeted by the other Argonauts.13 Nonetheless, a more nuanced appreciation of the scene can help us to better understand the poetics of gaze and Jason’s heroic status. First of all, it is true that the Argonauts “wonder” (322, ἐθάμβησαν) at the arrival of Acastus and Argus, yet not at that of Jason; this could be the first indication of Apollonius’ deconstruction of Jason’s position. However, one should also note that the reaction of the Argonauts is typical for an unexpected arrival and has more to do with Apollonius’ interaction with previous traditions rather than a desire to undermine Jason’s position as such.14 In particular, thambos alludes to the tradition according to which neither Acastus nor Argos participated in the Argonautic expedition.15 According to Demagetus (Σ A. R. 1.224–226a), Pelias bribed Argos to construct a defective ship that would cause the death of Jason. The arrival of Acastus and Argus causes amazement on two scores: it shows that both men are willing to defy Pelias, and on a metaliterary plane it is a significant statement regarding Apollonius’ adaptation of the traditions available to him. The sequence in which Jason, Acastus and Argus arrive on the scene reverses their previous introduction in the catalogue of the Argonauts. In the catalogue, Apollonius mentions the two supernumerary Argonauts (Acastus and Argos) first and concludes the catalogue with Jason. Jason’s position and role is thus extolled as the convener of the group. Through his Minyan descent, Jason bestows the appellation “Minyans” upon the Argonauts, although other Argonauts share this origin (1.228–33). By contrast, Jason is the first to arrive at the dock followed by the two supernumerary crew members. One could say that, flanked by Argos and Acastus, Jason commands a more impressive appearance, thus reassuring the readers of the safety of the Argo and the prospects of the expedition through this indirect acknowledgement of his skill as leader.16 The two mentions of Acastus and Argos frame the intervening narrative: the admiration of the heroes by the gathered crowds, which reflects the extensive catalogue (1.234–50), is followed by Jason’s encounter with his mother, which is a remark on Jason’s Minyan descent on his mother’s side (1.251–

13 Cf. Clauss 1993, 57, 60–61, DeForest 1994, 48–50. 14 Cf. Il. 11.777 and 24.482–84 (Edwards 1987: 309); cf. also A. R. 4.73–74. Ultimately the Argonauts’ wonder conveys Pelias’ animosity towards Jasons and his comrades; cf. Händel 1954, 45–47. 15 Cf. Vian 1976, vol. 1, 13–14 n. 3. 16 This interpretation would associate the scene with Nagler’s conference sequence, since the protagonist is followed by two persons that add to the leader’s prominence. See below 130.

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316). Finally, the mention of Acastus and Argos are an indication that Alcimede’s fears are unfounded: the Argo will conduct Jason and his comrades safely despite Pelias’ plans. Critics also point out that the Argonauts look (πάπτηναν) to Heracles as the leader of their quest, rather than Jason (1.341–44).17 Considering the circumstances, their expectation is understandable. Heracles is a mature and established hero, who abandons his tasks to participate in the expedition (1.125– 32). In this regard, he is the most sensible choice to lead the Argonauts. The awkwardness that ensues reflects Apollonius’ scholarly interest in the problems posed by Heracles’ participation in the expedition rather than an attempt to undermine Jason’s position. It is certainly true that older poets did not feel this awkwardness as keenly – Pindar certainly did not because he has no issue with Heracles following Jason. Engagement with such problems best fits the profile of an erudite Hellenistic poet trying to tease out the contradictions present in the traditions he has inherited. One can again point to the importance of the preceding catalogue for the elucidation of the text. Heracles is, in fact, introduced in the Argive section of the catalogue as an aside (1.121–32). He does not figure at the very top of the list of Argonauts as in other versions (e.g. Pindar’s Pythian 4.171–72 or the catalogue of the Orphic Argonautica 118– 21), seeming instead to be simply one of the group. His place in the catalogue should be viewed as the first indication of Heracles’ ambiguous position in Apollonius’ epic. The use of peuthometha “we learn” at 1.123 is particularly telling in the mouth of the primary narrator. Heracles’ membership in the Argonautic expedition was contested,18 and the verb has a scholarly tone; in the manner of a textual index, peuthometha demonstrates Apollonius’ opinion on the matter. Furthermore, atherixai (1.123) raises the possibility of Heracles’ scorning Jason only to have it emphatically rejected by Heracles himself.19 Consequently, the gaze of the Argonauts serves as the conduit through which the issue of the leadership of the team is brought into focus; it also sets to rest any scholarly questions about Heracles’ status in the hierarchy of the group. In the light of the above considerations, I would argue that the comparison of Jason to Apollo at 1.306–10 is an effective means of characterisation. It places Jason between adolescence and manhood, while also intimating his youth-

17 παπταίνω is used again in connection with the leadership of the Argonauts at 3.512–13. On παπταίνω, see also Grethlein this volume, 44 and Lovatt this volume, 97–98. 18 Cf. Vian 1976, vol. 1, 245 n. 123. 19 Glaucus’ prophecy (1.1310–25) is a further confirmation that such an accusation lacks any basis.

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ful inexperience, an issue central to Apollonius’ representation of Jason.20 Jason needs to prove his right to lead this group of older, established heroes.21 What is beyond question is that he is the centre of attention, not only as the victor of the Golden Fleece, but also as the means by which Hera brings Medea to Greece (3.1133–35; 4.241–43).22 The juxtaposition of Jason with Heracles introduces an important structural element into Apollonius’ narrative. Heracles sets the limits of heroism that others approach but cannot surpass, although this model of heroism does not concern solely Jason. Heracles’ presence amidst the Argonauts disrupts their unity,23 since the kind of heroism Heracles represents is unsuitable for the demands of the challenge at hand. Consequently, a different model of leadership is required, a model closer to the skills of Jason. As we will see next, eros plays a prominent role therein. As the Argo sets sail at 1.536–41, Apollonius compares the rowing Argonauts to a group of young men dancing in Apollo’s honour at one of his cult centres. The comparison of the Argonauts with ἠίθεοι (“unmarried youths”) indicates their role in Apollonius’ narrative as objects of desire, preparing for the erotic discourse that is central to their representation throughout the narrative.24 This designation possibly also sustains the analogy between the Argonautic expedition and Theseus’ Cretan adventure, which Jason acknowledges in his discussion with Medea (3.997–1004).25 Bacchylides (17.43, 93, 128) uses ἠίθεοι to describe the seven Ionian youths that accompany Theseus to Crete.26 These youths perform a paean onboard Minos’ ship, which is juxtaposed with the actual Kean chorus performing Bacchylides’ poem (128–32). Apollonius’ comparison between the rowers and the dancing youths is similar in that it again takes place onboard a ship, admittedly a peculiar dance floor. Like Theseus and his chorus of youths and maidens, Jason leads a chorus of young 20 Cf. Hunter 1993, 15, 84–85. Note in particular Orpheus’ paean at 2.705–13. The emphasis here is not on the clash between chthonic and Olympian powers as elsewhere in this epic. Rather, Orpheus focuses on Apollo’s appearance: young, his locks unshorn, his body naked. Apollo’s nakedness marks out this divine victory as a parallel for Jason’s victory over Aeetes’ bulls in Book 3. Cf. also Polydeuces at 2.43–44. 21 Cf. Natzel 1992, 183–84. 22 Cf. Beye 1969, 37–38, Clauss 1997, 149–50. 23 To make matters worse, Heracles threatens the stability of the Argo, compromising the success of the expedition (cf. 1.1161–63). 24 The erotic aspect of the rowing Argonauts is foregrounded through the gaze of the Pelian nymphs at 1.547–52. In contrast, Catullus posits a male audience staring at the bosoms of the Nereids as they emerge from the sea (64.16–18); see Trimble 2010, 32, 39 ad 16–18. The contrast illustrates Apollonius’ set of priorities. 25 See Goldhill 1991, 301–5. 26 The same noun seems to have been recorded on the papyrus as the title of the poem; cf. Jebb 1905, 374 in the apparatus criticus.

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men in celebrating Apollo. In addition to being a metaphor for harmonious cooperation, dancing also registers the erotic aspect of dancers.27 In this regard, the Argonautic quest, at least in Apollonius’ version, resembles a performance in honour of Apollo.28 The fact that Apollonius patterns the proem of the Argonautica in the fashion of a hymn to Apollo29 lends strength to the above interpretation and suggests that this simile also conveys the god’s support of Jason’s quest (cf. 1.435–39). Following the above simile, the narrator inserts a new audience; Argo and its crew attract the attention of two divine audiences. The narrator distinguishes between the reactions of major and minor deities (1.547–52): πάντες δ’ οὐρανόθεν λεῦσσον θεοὶ ἤματι κείνῳ νῆα καὶ ἡμιθέων ἀνδρῶν γένος, οἳ τότ’ ἄριστοι πόντον ἐπιπλώεσκον· ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῃσι δὲ νύμφαι Πηλιάδες σκοπιῇσιν ἐθάμβεον, εἰσορόωσαι ἔργον Ἀθηναίης Ἰτωνίδος ἠδὲ καὶ αὐτούς ἥρωας χείρεσσιν ἐπικραδάοντας ἐρετμά. On that day all the gods looked down from the sky upon the ship and the race of the demigods, the best of men who were then sailing over the sea. On the highest peaks, the nymphs of Pelion marvelled seeing the work of Itonian Athena and the heroes themselves plying the oars with their hands.

Both audiences view the same objects, the Argo and the Argonauts. However, their designation differs for each respective group of viewers, differences which underline the stance the viewer adopts vis-à-vis the spectacle viewed.30 Although the gods watch the ship and the “race of semi-divine men”, the gaze of the nymphs is more particular; they do not just see but admire the divine workmanship visible in the construction of the Argo and the toil of the men rowing. The choice of verb is anything but coincidental and requires further elucidation. Following epic tradition,31 Apollonius uses θαμβέω and cognate forms to describe the epiphany of a divine being or a hero.32 ἐθάμβεον in particular is found twice more in the same sedes: at 4.1363, it signposts the epiphany of the 27 Cf. Boedeker 1974, 43–63. 28 The Argonauts offer a convenient chorus for a series of choral performances: the victory song for Polydeuces (2.160–63), the paean for Apollo after his epiphany (2.701–14), and the wedding song for Jason and Medea (4.1155–60). 29 Cf. Paduano and Fusillo 1986, 85, Hunter 1993, 119–20, Green 2007, 201 ad 1. 30 Cf. Byre 2002, 7, Clare 2002, 60–61. 31 Cf. e.g. Il. 1.199, 3.398, 4.79. 32 Cf. Turkeltaub 2003, 31–32 “Intense emotional response”. See also Ehnmark 1936, 16–19, Mette 1960, Laurens / Gallet de Santerre 1986, 468, 470–72.

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Libyan heroines that Jason reports to the other Argonauts, and similarly at 3.924 the Argonauts wonder at the beautified Jason, who is resplendent with grace. The fact that Apollonius adds παπταίνω to describe the gaze of the Argonauts in this scene associates the “epiphany” of Jason with his prominent status as their leader (τὸν καὶ παπταίνοντες ἐθάμβεον αὐτοὶ ἑταῖροι).33 The connotations of Jason’s public appearances are strengthened by the fact that the cognate θάμβος indexes the epiphanies of Apollo (2.681), Circe’s beings (4.682), and the Hesperides (4.1430).34 Against this background, inasmuch as the Argo is the product of Athena’s craftmanship, θαμβέω at 1.550 also suggests that the ship is an epiphanic embodiment of her godhead.35 In addition, the Argo prefigures Athena’s cloak that enchants the eyes of the Lemnian women (1.777). The two items of divine artistry are associated through the employment of the same circumlocution:36 in both cases a female audience appreciates the Argonauts’ sexual appeal against a divine background (Argo or the cloak) associated with Athena.37 The reaction of the Nymphs to the sight of the Argonauts is strongly juxtaposed with that of the Olympian gods, who maintain a higher status than the nymphs, both ontologically and geographically. This contrast is also present in the verbs used; for the gods, leussō is used, a rather colourless verb lacking any implication about the divine audience’s feelings, unlike ethambeon which the narrator uses for the nymphs.38 In their first, and only, appearance as a group, the Olympian gods remain distanced in accordance with their general attitude towards mortal action in this epic.39 However, the nymphs are emo33 The amazement of the Argonauts contrasts with the fear the Myrmidons feel at the sight of Achilles’ new armour (Il. 19.14–15). 34 θάμβος is also used for the appearance of Sthenelus’ ghost (2.922), and the swinging motion of one of the pillars Heracles erects over the tombs of the Boreads (1.1307). At 4.1673, θάμβος describes the reaction of the narrator to the epiphanic manifestation of Medea’s power. 35 Divine objects generally cause admiration imitating epiphanic discourse, for example the divine sandals of the Boreads (1.220); the Fleece (4.184). Cf. also. Il. 10.439–41; 18.83–84; Hes. Theog. 581. 36 1.551 (ἔργον Ἀθηναίης Ἰτωνίδος), 1.721 (θεᾶς Ἰτωνίδος ἔργον), 1.768 (Τοῖ’ ἄρα δῶρα θεᾶς Ἰτωνίδος ἦεν Ἀθήνης). 37 Cf. the admiration of the Phaeacian women at 4.1192–93 where thambeō is also used. The mention of Athena is typical in Hellenistic scenes of admiration (Theoc. 15.80–86; Herod. 4.56– 68, 7.116), even when the context is sexual and thus inappropriate for a virgin goddess (Herod. 6.65–67); see also Goldhill 1991, 310–11. For admiration in Latin versions of the Argonautic expedition, see Trimble 2010, 38 on admirantes. 38 Cf. Händel 1954, 91–92, 94 n. 1, Lovatt 2013, 48. 39 Cf. Byre 2002, 51. Homer often juxtaposes divine audiences with mortal ones, calling attention to the lack of emotional involvement on the part of the gods; cf. Bremer 1987a, 41–43. Still the presence of the divine audience calls attention to the importance of the scene; cf. Griffin 1978.

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tionally invested in the sight of the ship and its crew. The scene prepares the reader for the active involvement of various groups of nymphs in the nostos of the Argonauts (Nereids; Libyan heroines; Hesperides).40 Despite their differences, both divine audiences agree in the manner they perceive the status of the Argonauts. The designation of the Argonauts as “demigods” looks back to Hesiod’s myth of the five races and constructs another link, in addition to that of the Argo, between gods and Argonauts as their offspring.41 Hesiod associates “demigods” only with the Theban and Trojan Wars. In this use, Hesiod is followed by most Greek authors.42 By representing the Argonauts as “demigods”, Apollonius creates a third mythological category, which completes and expands the Hesiodic scheme.43 The noun hērōs that Hesiod uses in his definition of demigods is provided in Apollonius’ text by the gaze of the Pelian nymphs. The lexical agreement between the two epics confirms that heroic identity is identified with semi-divine status. More importantly, this scene implies that the poetics of gaze are closely connected with the poetics of heroism.

Heroic Epiphanies in Epic Tradition In the previous section, I have shown that the appearances of Jason and the rest of the Argonauts relate to the status of the Argonauts as heroes or demigods, influencing the reaction of an internal audience to their appearance. In a manner similar to that of divine epiphanies, the recognition of a hero’s status is accompanied by awe or amazement.44 Typically, “epiphany” refers to the revelation of a divine being to a mortal spectator. Nonetheless, in literature, narrative and mythic patterns appropriate for gods can also be used for exceptional mortals.45 For instance, scholars have noted that the myth of theoxeny 40 Cf. Byre 2002, 7–8. 41 Op. 159–60 ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων θεῖον γένος, οἳ καλέονται | ἡμίθεοι; cf. Simonides PMG 523, fr. 11.18 W2. See also Händel 1954, 48, Clauss 1990, 137–38, Hunter 1993, 128. 42 Troy: Il. 12.23, Bacch. 13.122, Eur. IA 172, Pl. Ap. 28c1, Isoc. Helen. Enc. 48, Theoc. 15.137. Thebes: Bacch. 9.10, 11.62. 43 Admittedly, in so doing, Apollonius follows previous authors: Pind. Pyth. 4.12, 184, 211, Acusilas fr. 30 Fowler. Cf. also Theoc. 13.69. 44 Cf. Murnaghan 1987, 84 n. 27, Clarke 2004, 80. Van Wees (1992, 70) construes the admiration of the hero as a form of deference that indicates the honor in which he is held by members of his community. 45 See Murnaghan 1987, 12–13, Nagy 2013, 442. Turkeltaub (2003, 298) talks of “mortal epiphany scenes” with regard to Odysseus’ reveleation of his true identity to Telemachus. Cf. also Edwards (1987, 273) “kind of epiphany of Achilles” at Il. 18.202–31. Bakker (1995, 109–10) exam-

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(that is, the offer, or decline to offer, hospitality to disguised god(s) with resulting reward or punishment)46 is a pattern often also applied in literature to “heroes”, such as Heracles, Theseus, or the Dioscuri, resulting in the creation of what one may term “heroic theoxenies”.47 Analogously, epic poetry often employs “epiphany” patterns to convey the heroic, unique status of a mortal character at crucial times in the narrative. The distinction between gods and humans is part of a wider tripartite ontological scheme comprising gods, men, and animals. Any disruption of this scheme compromises the stability of Zeus’ reign and is punished accordingly. Nonetheless, Greek mythological systems allow for the charismatic mortal, usually the child of a divine parent and a mortal one, to exist at the fringes of the mortal condition; the “hero” is closer to either gods or animals, or both, than the average individual. Consequently, the “hero” can be defined as a mortal that approximates not only divinity but at times even animality.48 Additionally, since all authors who mention the Argonauts refer to them as hēmitheoi, some common characteristics associated with their semi-diving status emerge from use of this term. According to Hesiod’s account, these semi-divine beings participated in great events of the past (e.g. they fought under the walls of Thebes and Troy), and were close to the gods, surpassing ordinary men in strength, beauty and stature.49 Apollonius’ representation of the Argonauts lends support to this proposed interpretation of a semi-divine status. Quite often Apollonius throws the heroic attributes of the Argonauts into relief through their juxtaposition with ordinary men and women who represent the internal audience.50 The fact that Apolloni-

ines the epiphanic quality of Homeric noun-epithet formulas at significant moments in the narrative. 46 Cf. Flückiger-Guggenheim 1984, Jameson 2014, 162–63, 170–72. 47 Cf. Flückiger-Guggenheim 1984, 59–81. Additionally, Kearns (1982) has drawn attention to the fact that a theoxeny pattern articulates the second half of Odysseus’ nostos; cf. Murnaghan 1987. 48 Cf. Thalmann 1984, 78–79, Miller 2000, 73. Also relevant is the comparison in the Iliad of warriors to animals of prey, especially lions, wolves, or boars: see Schein 1984, 78–79, Redfield 1994, 183–204, Clarke 1995, 2004, 80–90. 49 Cf. Scodel 1982, Clarke 2004, 78–81. 50 Apollonius’ use of hērōs is too diverse to allow neat categorisations. However, some instances support the proposed interpretation. For instance, at 2.668 it suggests superhuman strength; cf. 3.1365–67, 4.1380–90. At 4.250–51 the collective hērōes is meant as a temporal index, underlining the gap separating the Argonauts from the poet’s audience. This use is common in aitia; cf. 4.1728. In other cases, hērōs emphasises the impression that the Argonauts make on internal audiences: 4.1182–83 – note particularly 4.1191–93: θάμβευν δ’ εἰσορόωσαι ἀριπρεπέων ἡρώων | εἴδεα καὶ μορφάς.

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us gives an unpretentious aspect to the first embedded audience in Book 1, as Fränkel (1968: 56) points out, conveys the same meaning of “semi-divine” as in Hesiod. However, the two categories, those of ordinary men and demigods, are represented by Apollonius as being contemporaneous with each, rather than as successive stages in the evolution of human culture as related in Hesiod. Apollonius’ technique is in tune with the Hellenistic predilection for realism and innovation. One can compare, for example, the audience of farmers that celebrate the capture of the Marathonian bull by Theseus in Callimachus’ Hecale (fr. 69 Hollis) or even the audience of Heracles’ first ever exploit in Theocritus 24. Specifically, in the latter case, instead of the predominantly military audience of Pindar’s Nemean 1 (51–52), Theocritus opts for an audience that is closer to the urban realism characteristic of Idyll 24 as a whole. The perception of Delphis by Simaetha in Theocritus 2 (77–80) or of an unidentified man, possibly her husband,51 by Hecale (frr. 42–46 Hollis) also operates against the background of heroic epiphanies. In particular, Simaetha associates the appearance of Delphis with brilliance, employing a participle (stilbonta) also found in Odysseus’ appearance to Nausicaa in Odyssey 6.52 Analogously, Hecale’s eroticised gaze registers standard elements of epiphanic discourse: the comparison of Hecale’s husband to demigods (42.3), the focus on his goldthreaded cloak, the product of a skilled weaver (42.5–6), and his blonde locks (44). The combined effect of these motifs parallels Jason’s appearance wearing Athena’s cloak in Book 1 and his beautification by Hera in Book 3. At the other end of the spectrum, Apollonius depicts the Argonauts as coming close to the state of animals. As a matter of fact, it was on this basis that Meuli (1921) explained the magical powers of certain Argonauts, going on to suggest that an older tale version hides behind the myth, a version in which the protagonist was helped by animals, not humans. Meuli (1921, 1–24) bases his interpretation on various indications, including, among other things, the names of some of the heroes or even their attire. One case in point is Ancaeus who appears wearing a bear skin (1.168), a sign of his animality. For all intents and purposes, Ancaeus is the Arcadian double of Heracles.53 Heracles approximates both other ontological states: he is the son of a god who also dons a lion skin, a sign of his feral nature. His description by the Hesperides focuses on the divine brilliance of his eyes and the lion pelt over his shoulder (4.1437–38). Apollonius is very meticulous in his treatment of garments and fabrics, descriptions which are often pregnant with symbolic connotations.54 The fact that, in his presenta51 52 53 54

Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf.

Acosta-Hughes and Stephens 2012, 200. Gow 1952, vol. 2, 51 ad loc. Vian 1976, 247 on line 171. Rose 1985, Clauss 1993, 33.

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tion of Ancaeus, Apollonius pays special attention to what he is wearing is significant in that it reveals information about Ancaeus’ character and the kind of hero he is. Along similar lines, but in a less brutal manner than either Ancaeus or Heracles, the presentation of Polydeuces by Apollonius demonstrates the intermediary position of Greek heroes: Polydeuces combines divine brilliance and beauty with the strength and courage of a wild animal (2.40–45). The epiphany of a divine being is a process rather than a momentary event. However, epic poets never describe the actual stages the god undergoes before he manifests himself in human form, as is, for example, the case with the Hesperides at 4.1422–30. Instead, poets present two moments in time: before and after the revelation of the god’s identity. In this manner, poets focus on those signs that communicate to the mortal viewer the divine status of the disguised god.55 These, as a rule, concern stature, fragrance, and brilliance: gods are taller and bigger than mortals, a sweet fragrance wafts about them, issuing from their body and clothes, and they fill the room with light, usually inspiring awe in the onlooker.56 The difficulties that arise from the application of divine epiphany scenes to heroes lead to the creation of a typology of heroic epiphanies that sheds light on Apollonius’ representation of Jason. In most divine epiphany scenes, gods appear in mortal disguise. The mortal disguise clouds the divine nature; in manifesting his or her true nature, the epiphanic god thus transitions from a lower ontological status to a higher one. The extremity of this transition emphasises the differences between mortal and divine bodies. As Murnaghan (1987, 13) explains, gods in Homer assume those disguises that are most alien to their quintessential nature; appearing as old and dispossessed humans highlights the susceptibility of mortals to fortune and the passage of time. In this manner, gods throw into relief their own everlasting youth and happiness. For obvious reasons, this narrative scenario is not applicable to heroes. Heroes are always divinely handsome, valiant, of big stature, or powerful.57 In light of this, the poet needs to create the appropriate narrative circumstances that will emphasise the attributes that bring heroes closer to gods.58 One possible

55 Cf. Turkeltaub 2003, 23–30. 56 Hymn Hom. Dem. 276–80 (cf. Richardson 1974, 252–54), Hymn Hom. Ven. 173–75 (cf. Faulkner 2008, 238–42). 57 For the Homeric ideal of beauty, see Schrade 1952, 260–69. 58 Most of these scenes elaborate upon the “ritualised” or traditional circumstances that, according to Bakker (1995, 109–10), invest Homeric noun-epithet formulas with an epiphanic function: e.g. introduction of speech; introduction of hero or god when he is about to perform a remarkable or characteristic act.

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method of doing this is keeping a hero’s identity secret to the internal audience when he is first introduced. The fact that the embedded audience ignores his true identity guides their gaze to those exact elements that manifest his heroic status and are reminiscent of the gods. Ignorant of the hero’s true identity, the audience often mistakes him for a god in disguise, acknowledging in this way the kinship between heroic and divine epiphanies.59 On the other hand, the appearance of Jason to Medea in Book 3 and of the Argonauts in Book 1 operates on a different premise. The embedded audience is aware of who Jason and the Argonauts are. Nonetheless, they still appreciate the divine elements perceptible in the heroes. This leads to a second type of narrative circumstances for heroic epiphanies. In these circumstances, the internal audience is already acquainted with the hero’s identity, and so there is no mistaking him for a god in disguise. However, the epiphany happens at a portentous or significant moment that sheds fresh, defamiliarising even, light on the way the hero looks. The epiphanic aspect in such scenes prefigures the success of the endeavour in which the hero is engaged. When the Argonauts gather in Book 1, the people admire them. The moment is portentous in that it constitutes the beginning of the quest; the epiphany prefigures the successful outcome of the journey. One may associate this with the divine brilliance that envelops warriors in the Iliad and its role in prefiguring the ensuing aristeia.60 This brilliance can either be due to a god or to the armour irrespective of whether this is of divine (e.g. Achilles) or mortal provenance. True to this tradition, Apollonius invests the arming scenes of both Aeetes (3.1228–29) and Jason (3.1266, 1280–81) with a divine, preternatural brilliance.61 The comparison of the brilliance of Aeetes’ armour with the rising sun parallels that of Jason’s cloak at 1.725–26. On the other hand, the brilliance of Jason crosses realms reaching Olympus from earth (cf. 3.1377–80). The mention of Olympus in this context recalls the appearance of the Argo in Book 1; the Argo shines like a flame, while Jason is invested with a blinding brightness, similar to a star, a clear indication of the superhuman, divine status he attains thanks to Medea’s potion (3.1044–45 οὐδέ κε φαίης | ἀνδράσιν, ἀλλὰ θεοῖσιν ἰσαζέμεν ἀθανάτοισι). Aeetes’ bewildered reaction to the Jason’s strength (3.1314) completes the lan-

59 Cf. the first appearance of Jason in Iolcus (Pythian 4.86–92). 60 Cf. Il. 5.1–6 (Diomedes), 11.44–45 (Agamemnon), 19.365–66, 374, 379, 381 (Achilles); see Arend 1933, 92–94, Whitman 1958, 128–53, Krischer 1971, 23–84. 61 See Thiel 1996. Orphic Arg. 811–17 imitates Apollonius’ description of Aeetes’ brilliant armour. The preternatural brilliance surrounding the arming of the two men reworks the admiration occasioned by Homeric heroes engaging in duels: Il. 3.340–43, 23.813–15. Unlike Homeric heroes though, Apollonius makes explicit that Jason is no match for Aeetes.

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guage of epiphanic discourse. On the other hand, the divine brilliance radiating from Jason on the field of Ares recalls the shining flame with which erōs invests Jason at the palace of Aeetes to seduce Medea (3.1017–19). Divine brilliance permeates the epic juxtaposing scenes, suggesting further significance for heroic epiphanies. At 4.125–6, the radiance of the Golden Fleece is paralleled to that of the rising sun through the colour red, similar to the description of the radiance of Jason’s cloak in Book 1. At 4.173, the Fleece produces the same effect upon Jason as his cloak has on Hypsipyle. In order to secure the Fleece, Jason needs to master the art of bewitching strong women,62 and the analogy between the two scenes underlines the importance of this discourse for the success of the quest. Instead of brilliance, a god may invest a hero with menos, sthenos or even charis in the Odyssey.63 Such scenes contextualise the beautification of Jason in Book 3. When Telemachus enters the assembly at Od. 2.12–14, Athena pours charis over him, and the Phaeacian elders admire him.64 As García (2002, 33) notes, “χάρις is the presence – in woman, man, song, art – of something divine, its manifestation being often visual”. The reason for the divine enhancement of Telemachus lies in the fact that this is the first public assembly in twenty years and signals Telemachus’ effort to claim his father’s position.65 Similarly, charis is applied to Odysseus before he competes in the Phaeacian games (Od. 8.17–23), a prefiguration of Odysseus’ true identity.66 Apollonius reflects this traditional use of charis in Jason’s beautification by Hera prior to his meeting with Medea in Book 3 in order to suggest that Medea’s assistance is invaluable for the success of the quest.67 Her potion replaces the divine armour Hephaestus creates for Achilles; in a similar fashion to the divine artefact, it invests Jason with supernatural brilliance. Hera enhances Jason’s good looks, prompting epiphanic admiration in the other Argonauts. Jason has however already manifested charis and kallos in his first public appearance in Colchis at 3.443–45 when he first attracts the furtive glances of Medea. Hera’s beautification of Jason serves as an enhancing factor that multiplies the effect of Jasons’ charis and kallos; both attributes are part of Jason’s quintessential heroic

62 Cf. Nyberg 1992, 123–24. Note also the parallel between 4.147 of the Fleece and 1.777 of Jason. 63 sthenos: Il. 2.451–2, 5.139, 11.11; menos: Il. 5.2, 125, 513, 10.482, 13.60; charis: Od. 6.235, 8.19, 17.63. Cf. Ehnmark 1936, 5–8. 64 Cf. Nagler 1974, 120–22. 65 Cf. de Jong 2001, 47. 66 Cf. also Od. 18.354–55. 67 Cf. Clauss 1997, 166–67.

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make-up.68 In addition, as with Telemachus in Odyssey 2, the glorification of the hero influences his rhetorical dexterity, suggesting an additional characteristic of his heroic identity (3.923; 1140–41).69 The sound of Jason’s words produces an effect similar to his appearance; at 3.1102–3 Jason’s sweet talk troubles Medea’s heart (cf. 3.618), with the verb eretheskon referencing the importance of red in heroic epiphanies (see below next section). Lyric poetry operates against this background by associating heroic epiphanies with specific ritual contexts; accordingly, mortal men appear as heroes in special circumstances supported by references to mythological foils.70 The representation of victors in epinician poetry reworks heroic epiphanies contextualising the traditional material in juxtapositions of victors with mythical heroes. Wedding songs also adopt a similar strategy regarding the praise they impart on the newly-weds.71 Sappho compares both groom and bride with heroes72 or even gods (e.g. Ares, fr. 111.5 Voigt). In both genres, the application of heroic epiphany discourse highlights the importance of the context. This interpretation is significant since it allows us a finer appreciation of the appearances of Hylas and Jason in Book 1, both of whom recall the grooms of wedding songs. A final, more elaborate case of heroic epiphany is offered by Athena’s beautification of Odysseus in Odyssey 6 (229–37) and 23 (152–63).73 The identity of Odysseus is unclear to the internal audience (Nausicaa and Penelope), which suspects him of being a god in disguise. Confusion is intensified through the miraculous transformation of the wretched Odysseus who is suddenly invested with divine attributes. Athena pours charis over Odysseus and a miraculous change is effected, a transition extreme and similar to that of a divine epiphany, engendering awe and mistrust in those present.74 Odysseus’ limbs are filled, he is enveloped with brilliance and beauty, and a sweet fragrance wafts around him. Heroic epiphany is over-determined here through the combination of a se-

68 Cf. Campbell 1983, 116 n. 23. For beauty as part of the heroic ideal, see Schrade 1952, 261– 69, Van Wees 1992, 72–79. 69 Cf. Hutchinson 1988, 112–13, Knight 1995, 238. 70 Cf. Nagy 2013, 109–46. 71 Cf. Snell 1931, 72, Hague 1983, 133–34, Contiades-Tsitsoni 1988, 57. See also Menander Rhetor 404.6–8; Himerius Or. 9.185–94. 72 Achilles (fr. 105b Voigt); possibly also fr. 44 Voigt (Hector), fr. 23.5 Voigt (Helen), the genre of which is unknown. 73 Cf. Schrade 1952, 266–69, Lovatt 2013, 275–76. 74 charis highlights the transition from a destitute condition to a heroic or semi-divine form: πρόσθεν μὲν γὰρ δή μοι ἀεικέλιος δέατ’ εἶναι, | νῦν δὲ θεοῖσιν ἔοικε, τοὶ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν (6.242–43). Cf. also Od. 16.180–85.

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cret identity, visible changes via a divine factor (charis), and a symbolic narrative context. In order for Odysseus to allay Nausicaa’s fears and win her assistance, he appears like the divine groom she is secretly hoping for. In Book 23, the meeting of Odysseus with Penelope re-enacts their wedding; as a groom, Odysseus ought to be resplendent, similar to the gods. Both scenes also include a significant simile that compares the process of beautification with placing golden leaves over a silver basis. Odysseus’ attributes (silver) are thrown into relief by the application of motifs from divine epiphanic scenes (gold).

The heroics of erōs Gazing is central to the conception of erōs in the Argonautica; Medea falls in love with Jason while she stares at him, Hypsipyle blushes upon seeing Jason (1.791), and a nymph abducts Hylas after setting her eyes upon him. However, erōs is never an innocent sentiment in the Argonautica, but rather is described in hostile, war-like terms that are closely linked with the heroic status of the Argonauts.75 The centrality of gazing to the conceptualisation of erōs mirrors its centrality to the representation of heroism by Apollonius.76 As in other parts of the episode of Hylas,77 the description of awakening erōs in the nymph’s heart contains elements central to the appreciation of Jason’s public appearance and so constitutes an ideal starting point for examining the importance of the feminine gaze for the contours of heroic epiphanies (1.1229–33): τὸν δὲ σχεδὸν εἰσενόησεν κάλλεϊ καὶ γλυκερῇσιν ἐρευθόμενον χαρίτεσσιν, πρὸς γάρ οἱ διχόμηνις ἀπ’ αἰθέρος αὐγάζουσα βάλλε σεληναίη· τῆς δὲ φρένας ἐπτοίησεν Κύπρις, ἀμηχανίῃ δὲ μόλις συναγείρατο θυμόν She noticed him nearby, glowing with rosy beauty and sweet graces, for the full moon was casting its rays on him as it gleamed from the sky. Cypris confounded her thoughts, and in her helpless state she could barely collect her spirit.

The narrator associates the gaze of the nymph with four factors:78 Hylas’ beauty and graces, the colour red, the accentuating brightness of the moon, and 75 76 77 78

Cf. Händel 1954, 101–5, Newman 1986, 76–77. Sexual appeal seems to be an original trait of the archetypal hero: cf. Pötscher 1961, 335 Cf. Nyberg 1992, 70–80. Cf. Acosta-Hughes 2010, 60–61.

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Aphrodite’s role. All four elements reappear with slight variations in Jason’s appearances in Books 1 and 3, in Lemnos and Colchis respectively. Hylas combines “beauty” with “sweet graces”, phrasing which refers back to the impression that the beautified Odysseus makes on Nausicaa at Od. 6.237 (κάλλεϊ καὶ χάρισι στίλβων· θηεῖτο δὲ κούρη “the maiden admired him as he was glowing with beauty and graces”).79 Ereuthomenon introduces an erotic motif that resonates throughout the epic, creating a nexus of intertextual and intratextual correspondences which have a bearing on the interpretation of the erotics of gaze.80 First of all, this participle replaces the Homeric stilbōn, associating the heroic/divine brilliance of Odysseus with redness,81 a combination which is reflected in Jason’s appearance in Lemnos (see below). On the other hand, ereuthō, and its synonym eruthainomai, are used mainly in the Iliad to describe the deep red colour that the ground assumes when blood falls on it.82 Apollonius revises the epic use taking into consideration the use of ereuthō in erotic poetry.83 Specifically, Sappho (fr. 105 Voigt) employs this verb in a wedding song for a bride, who, like a sweet red apple, is out of the reach of most men.84 Similarly, Hylas will literally be out of the reach of both Polyphemus and Heracles. The allusion to Sappho illustrates the affinities of the scene with erotic poetry but reverses the gender roles of the subtext: Hylas resembles the bride, and the nymph the groom. The active role that the nymph assumes is in accordance with the structure of abduction myths.85 Once the abduction is completed, Hylas is said to become her posis “husband” (1.1325). This aspect of the Hylas episode prefigures Jason’s role; Jason will also become the husband of Medea in order to succeed in his quest, which is also suggested by the first scene of Medea’s dream (3.619–23). Once he acquires the Fleece, Jason is compared to a young girl, thus reversing the dynamics of his relationship with Medea (4.167–73).

79 Cf. Mooney 1912, 145 ad 1230. Treu (1955, 58–59) points out that Od. 6.237 is partially modelled on κάλλεΐ τε στίλβων καὶ εἵμασιν· οὐδέ κε φαίης used for Paris at Il. 3.392. Aphrodite makes Paris appear fresh and shining in his clothes and beauty so as to rekindle Helen’s passion for him. 80 Cf. Newman 1986, 73–74, Nyberg 1992, 43, Mori 2008, 118–19. 81 Cf. λαμπόμενον χαρίτεσσιν at A. R. 3.925. 82 Cf. LfgrE s. v. ἐρεύθω: Il. 11.394, 18.329; ἐρυθαίνομαι: Il. 10.484, 21.21. Cf. also Bacch. 3.44, 13.118. Note, however, ἐρύθηνεν at 4.474: Medea’s clothes are stained by her brother’s blood. 83 For the technique, see Hutchinson 1988, 116. 84 Cf. Theoc. 7.117. 85 For abduction of young men by goddesses, see Kampakoglou 2013, 313–17. For reversal of gender roles in the Argonautica, see Nyberg 1992, 105–14.

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The importance of Sappho for the evaluation of the female gaze is confirmed by Medea’s dream in Book 4.86 Medea represents a special case of internal viewer in the epic as the only character who revisits scenes in which she has participated and who self-referentially reflects upon the narrative plan of the poem and her role therein. Medea reviews Jason’s appearance (3.453–58), re-reading the scene in which she just participated. The accumulation of ὡς (twice, 455), οἷος and οἷα recreate her gaze, which alludes to a discourse associated predominantly with Sappho fr. 31 Voigt.87 Jason’s uniqueness is conveyed in terms that foreshadow his beautification by Hera prior to his private meeting with Medea (456–57). As a result of the beautification, Jason is explicitly said to surpass older heroes (3.919–26) in his beauty, a pointed remark with meta-literary implications: Jason surpasses his two epic models, Agamemnon (Il. 2.483) and Odysseus (Od. 6.235).88 The pouring of charis over Jason, his comparison with demigods, and the admiration of the Argonauts are meant to extoll Jason by indicating his prominent position. According to Nagler’s model (1974, 117–19), Jason is moving toward an assembly of sorts with Medea flanked by two attendants (Mopsus and Argos), who are later dropped by divine intervention. The raven performs a meta-poetic role in that it draws attention to the clash of the epic scenes: assembly scenes and private meetings (oarizein) between lovers like that of Hector with Andromache.89 Apollonius employs porphureō to refer to Medea’s perception of Jason. In this context, it is very difficult not to associate the etymology of the verb with the importance of red for the erotics of gaze. The importance of red as marker of heroic or divine brightness is introduced for the first time in Jason’s glorious appearance to the women of Lemnos (1.778).90 Ereuthomenos is used here of Jason as he makes his progress through the city of Lemnos to meet Hypsipyle. The focalisation of the Lemnian women references the preceding description of Jason’s cloak (1.722, 726–28), whilst ereuthomenos anticipates Hypsipyle’s blushing (1.791). Jason appears like a bright star that paints clouds red as it rises through the sky. The effect that this image has on the viewer is described as a bewitching one, with thelgō having strong erotic undertones.91 The audience is likened to brides shut up in their

86 For the Hellenistic reception of Sappho, see Acosta-Hughes 2010. 87 Allusions to Sappho’s fr. 31 permeate Apollonius’ depiction of Medea; cf. Acosta-Hughes 2010, 49–59. 88 Cf. Hunter 1989, 199 ad 919–25, Knight 1995, 237–38. 89 Cf. Il. 6.516, 22.127–28. 90 Cf. Vian 1976, vol. 1, 84 n. 1. For the brilliance of red items, see Duchemin 1955, 196–200, 210–13. According to a tradition that goes back to Simonides (PMG 576), the Fleece was red. Apparently, its brilliance can be expressed in terms of both gold and red. 91 Cf. Nyberg 1992, 8–9, Reitz 1996, 15–19.

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newly-built chambers and a virgin whose intended is abroad. The comparison casts the participants in this scene in specific roles: Jason and the Argonauts are grooms for the Lemnian brides.92 Red cloaks adorned with golden jewellery are found in earlier literature in scenes where a hero is admired, especially by women.93 Often this admiration is imbued with marital overtones, the bedecked hero being thus cast in the role of the groom. Aristophanes (Pax 859) calls the groom lampros (“shining”), while he describes his cloak as dyed and of many forms, referring probably to woven patterns (Plut. 530).94 Similarly, Jason’s cloak is compared to the brightness of the sun and is covered with mythological scenes. The Hylas episode emphasises the dangers associated with the female gaze, especially in an erotic context, and can help us understand the narrative role of female viewers and their intertextual background. The performative context in which the nymph views Hylas is a choral performance for Artemis; Hylas has intruded upon an exclusively female world, which is associated with a virginal goddess. Although she is an acolyte of Artemis, the nymph is aroused by the looks of Hylas and betrays the chastity imposed upon her as one of the dread goddess’ companions. Her deportment, however, finds interesting parallels in the depiction of women by other Hellenistic poets. Simaetha, in Theocritus 2, views Delphis on her way to the sacred precinct of Artemis (67). In Greek literature, religious festivals often serve as a convenient occasion in which women could interact with male viewers.95 Typically, the woman is seen by the man, as in the story of Acontius and Cydippe. Theocritus, however, reverses the structure by representing Simaetha, like Apollonius’ nymph, assuming the male role. In Callimachus’ version of the liaison between Acontius and Cydippe, the original meeting is localised again in Artemis’ precinct in Delos, a detail that suggests affinities with Odysseus’ meeting with Nausicaa. Finally, Medea’s brother, Apsyrtus, is also massacred in the vicinity of Artemis’ temple (4.469–70). Artemis is generally absent from the action of the poem. Instead, Aphrodite is repeatedly associated with the successful completion of the expedition. Nevertheless, all the women involved with Jason are either compared to the virgin goddess or can be associated with her through the imagery used. The Artemis-like appearance of both the unnamed nymph in Book 1 and of Medea in Book 3 is not only an indication of their beauty but also of the sinister possi-

92 93 94 95

Cf. Nyberg 1992, 26–27, Hunter 1993, 48–49, 52–53. E.g. Od. 19.225–35 (Odysseus); cf. Hunter 1993, 52–53, Knight 1995, 166 n. 117. Cf. Oakley and Sinos 1993, 134n42. Cf. Gow 1952, vol. 2, 49 on line 66. Cf. also Lysias 1.8–9.

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bilities associated with their gaze; Medea’s evil eye is so powerful that is can destroy Talos, a monstrous being belonging to a different era (4.1669–70).96 The society of Lemnos is exclusively female, and this peculiarity creates connections with Artemis’ retinue. All men have been killed, and the women have assumed male roles.97 The narrator compares the Lemnian women with “raw-flesh-eating Maenads”, reinforcing not only the sex-segregated nature of their society (1.636) but also emphasising the frenzied unpredictability of possessed women. The Maenad-like quality that colours their depiction by Apollonius potentially casts the young Jason in the role of the tragic Pentheus, with the Dionysian background of the Lemnian royal house allowing for such a possibility. In Book 4, Apsyrtus is slaughtered in the manner of a sacrificial victim lured into a trap by a cloak that once belonged to Dionysus and which Hypsipyle gave to Jason (4.421–434).98 Hypsipyle has the means to beguile Jason, and Jason needs to guard himself wearing a cloak woven by Athena.99 The analogy between Jason and Apsyrtus, also suggested by the fact that the cloak was meant originally for Jason, not Apsyrtus, intimates a variant, more sinister ending for the liaison with Hypsipyle, had Athena’s protection not succeeded. Consistent with the reversal of gender roles in the Argonautica, the Lemnian women, who make up the audience to Jason’s epiphany, are armed like soldiers, while Jason is dressed in an elaborate cloak.100 This representation of genders undermines the role of Achilles’ shield as intertextual model. The third, and central, scene on Jason’s cloak has a clear meta-poetic function that influences the reading of Jason’s liaison with Hypsipyle.101 The couple of Ares and Aphrodite parallels the depiction of another couple on Achilles’ shield, that of Ares and Athena (Il. 18.518–19). However, while Ares and Athena are depicted surrounded by mortal warriors, Aphrodite’s presence on Jason’s cloak nullifies the value of Ares’ shield. The shield reflects Aphrodite’s beauty,102 and since this image is combined with the unarming of Ares, Apollonius conveys

96 Cf. Campbell 1983, 57–58, DeForest 1994, 118, Clauss 1997, 164–66, 175–76. Medea is compared to Artemis at 3.875–86 and associated with her by Apsyrtus (4.346, κούρηι Λητωΐδι). 97 Cf. Levin 1971, 59–63. 98 Cf. Porter 1990. 99 For the ambiguities in the depiction of Hypsipyle, see Nyberg 1992, 121–22. 100 Cf. Nyberg 1992, 122. 101 δίπλακα πορφυρέην (722) refers to Helen’s “great web” depicting the struggles of Greeks and Trojans (Il. 3.125–27). Ancient scholiasts invest Helen’s robe with a meta-poetic significance (Σ on Il. 3.126–27) which is clearly imitated by Apollonius’ mantle. 102 Cf. Lovatt 2013, 187. Hypsipyle imitates Aphrodite on the cloak: the redness of her cheeks matches, and reflects, the colour of Jason’s attire.

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Aphrodite’s supremacy over martial power.103 The interaction of Aphrodite with Ares contextualises Apollonius’ engagement with the Homeric description of Achilles’ shield first, and Jason’s interaction with Hypsipyle second. Instead of military excellence, Apollonius focuses on beauty. These two concepts are matched and seen as functionally equivalent in regard to the heroic epiphany represented in both scenes. Apollonius maintains the formal frame of the Homeric subtext (i.e. ekphrasis), which he deconstructs in a manner similar to that of Aphrodite on the cloak. The various scenes depicted on Jason’s cloak are termed daidala, a term significant because it points towards Apollonius’ models. Viewing the daidala means viewing their intertextual foils and appreciating Apollonius’ art as similar to that of Athena. In the description of Achilles’ shield (Il. 18.440), daidala references the scenes depicted on it and Hephaestus’ skill. However, the significance of this link fades in the light of another Iliadic usage. At Il. 14.179, daidala is used for the scenes woven on the dress that Athena gives to Hera. The similarities to the scene under examination are undeniable; in both cases it is Athena who gives a fabric she has woven to another person, who is off to seduce a lover. These connotations are supported by another possible parallel, again featuring Athena in a similar role. In the version of the Pandora myth narrated in the Theogony (574–75), the veil that Athena weaves for Pandora is called daidaleos and gives rise to admiration among those present. Apollonius again acknowledges epic conventions but reverses their gendered expectations; Jason participates in what Forsyth (1979) terms “allurement scene” but assumes the role typically attributed to women like Hera, Pandora, or Aphrodite. In the manner of these women, Jason is beautified prior to meeting his victim, Hypsipyle. Apollonius suggests an arena of heroic performance that is alien to the Iliadic conception of heroism but also communicates that heroic epiphanies are crucial to the success of the expedition.104 The red colour of Jason’s cloak suggests brightness. In its two other appearances (3.163; 4.126), ereuthō is used of the sun, and one may argue that here, not only is it used for the comparison of Jason to a celestial body, but also invests Jason’s appearance with an out-of-the-ordinary quality. Brilliance appears also in the Hylas episode where the moonlight accentuates Hylas’ beauty, giving an almost divine tincture to his beauty and thus making him irresistible to the eyes of the beholder.105 Specifically, augazō, the verb used in

103 Cf. Thiel 1993, 64–68. The juxtaposition of Ares with Aphrodite also looks ahead to a similar arrangement in Idas’ speech at 3.556–63 and Phineus’ prophecy at 2.423–25. 104 Cf. Segal 1986, 15–29. 105 As Bremer 1987b shows, the moon intensifies the erotic / marital aspects of the scene.

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the Hylas episode, is used twice more in the Argonautica to describe the very bright light that accompanies the epiphany of Apollo on the island Thynis (2.682) and Lynceus’ keen eyesight (1.155).106 The brightness that the moon bestows upon Hylas parallels the brightness that his red cloak in Book 1 or Hera’s charites in Book 3 bestow upon Jason. The use of hērōs instead of Jason’s name at 1.729, stressed by its placement at the very end of the line, associates Jason’s appearance with his heroic status. Jason’s heroism is illustrated through the impression he makes on the Lemnian women gathered and the passion he arouses in their queen. In this regard, the cloak holds an almost magical function that, according to Clauss (1993, 135), parallels the mōlu Odysseus receives from Hermes. In the manner of Odysseus in Odyssey 10, Jason also carries weapons, the spear Atalante gave him as a gift of guest-friendship. Jason will not need to make any use of this. However, the reference to Atalante is significant in as much as it shows Jason in possession of himself despite the threat that beautiful women like Atalante pose to the expedition; unlike his comrades, Jason overcomes this danger successfully.107 Nonetheless, this experience has not prepared him for Hypsipyle. Hypsipyle does not only parallel Circe, but she also replaces Calypso, with Heracles assuming the role of Hermes as the “divine” agent who sets things in motion. In the long run, like its functional equivalent in the Odyssey (i.e. the mōlu), Jason’s cloak is of no actual help. As it turns out, Hypsipyle is not a threat to Jason’s life, but to his heroic credentials.108 Like Odysseus before him, Jason is faced with a dilemma: either stay in Lemnos and reign there as king; or capture the Golden Fleece, putting his life in risk in the process, and so claim the right to his father’s throne. Both paths end with Jason on a throne, but what differs is the difficulty and amount of danger involved in each respective career. A more mature hero than Jason, Heracles, as Hunter (1993, 34) points out, speaks in a manner reminiscent of Prodicus’ tale; faced with a similar dilemma, Heracles chose Virtue rather than the seductive Vice.109 Heracles’ admonition to the Argonauts is in accordance with his own decision to take the path of Virtue and parallels the search for

106 κατηυγάσσαντο at 4.1248 indicates the necessity of divine assistance in order for the Argonauts to overcome the Hades-like obstacle that is the Libyan desert. 107 As Ormand (2014, 126) notes perceptively, “Atalanta […] has a tendency to compete with young men in contests that are typical of rites of passage for those young men. […] But at the same time, as an erotic object for those young men, she also has the potential to disrupt their masculine competition and successful transition to adulthood”. 108 Cf. Nyberg 1992, 117. 109 Cf. Goldhill 1991, 314–15.

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Hylas. Heracles tries to return Jason and Hylas to the right path that leads to kleos. Inasmuch as Heracles remains a foil to the Argonauts during his absence, he retains his “didactic” or “protective” role that culminates with him saving his comrades from an almost certain death from thirst in the Libyan desert. Against this background, the placement of the Lemnos episode at the opening of the quest, rather than its conclusion as in Pythian 4, is significant. It suggests Jason’s determination, and prepares for the more difficult task of securing Medea’s assistance.110 When the beautified Jason appears to Medea in Book 3, he looks to her like Sirius, the brightest star.111 Through this comparison, Apollonius is playing with virginal psychology, conveying the mixed feelings that the sight of a handsome man could awake in a young woman, reflecting Medea’s gaze and her passion for Jason. But the comparison of Jason to Sirius is double-edged; it is also a baleful star, and Hesiod associates its heliacal rising with the warmest period in the year.112 Sirius weakens men and awakens sexual desire in women, rendering them makhlōtatai “extremely lewd” (WD 586–88). Jason, in his capacity as Sirius, awakens in Medea a lewd passion, prompting her to betray her father and her people, and even to kill her brother. The Hesiodic connotations of Jason’s comparison to Sirius are strengthened by the allusion to Achilles’ persecution of Hector at Il. 22.26–32, where the divine breastplate Hephaestus has fashioned for Achilles bestows upon him the brightness of Sirius.113 Linguistic similarities lend strength to this connection, though the focaliser is not Hector, who is functionally analogous to Medea, but his father Priam. The consideration of the Iliadic parallel dispels the Nausicaa aspect of Medea.114 Medea, like Hector, is an opponent to be reckoned with. Jason needs the protection of Hera’s charites to face and “defeat” Medea. But even this image proves transient. Medea will not play Hector to Jason’s Achilles. The irony of an allusion to Iliad 22 in this context culminates with a reversal of the roles that it implies, strengthening the analogy with the abduction of Hylas: the viewer of Sirius turns out to be the victor and Sirius the victim. The juxtaposition of Jason and Medea with Achilles and Hector casts a negative shadow on Jason’s liaison with Medea from the outset, alluding to the tragic end of their story. The sinister connotations of the Sirius comparison are a textual subterfuge that allows Jason to claim, at least textually, the kleos of Achilles

110 111 112 113 114

Cf. Vian 1976, 24. Cf. Goldhill 1991, 306–7, Nyberg 1992, 29–37, Kossaifi 2012. Cf. Campbell 1983, 62. Diomedes is also compared to a star during his aristeia (Il. 5.5–6); cf. Whiman 1958, 167. Cf. Clauss 1997, 167.

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when he meets a formidable opponent. The heroic status of Jason is defined via the impression he makes on a female viewer, insinuating both Medea’s potential for harm and his promise of heroism.

Conclusions The loss of previous epic accounts about the Argonautic expedition does not allow us to form a complete picture regarding previous representations of Jason. Pindar’s Jason, as is to be expected, does not flinch in the face of danger and lacks amēkhaniē, the defining attribute of Apollonius’ Jason. Nonetheless, Pindar imputes to Jason the first ever use of the iunx under the tutelage of Aphrodite to seduce Medea (Pyth. 4.213–17). It is unclear if this suggests that, in archaic epic versions, “gazing” held the same importance as it does in the Argonautica.115 Despite this uncertainty, the epiphanies of Jason parallel similar scenes in the Odyssey, potentially even in the Iliad. One is reminded here of Redfield’s (1994, 22) interpretation of the Iliadic model of heroism: “In the Iliad […] the greatness of a man lies […] in his effect on others, whether that effect is voluntary or involuntary […]”. In a similar vein, Whitman (1958, 212) points attention to the Homeric description of Achilles’ aristeia solely through its visual effects on others, particularly Hector. Developing this tradition, Apollonius invests the Odyssey theme of gazing at a handsome hero (particularly Nausicaa in Od. 6 and Penelope in Od. 23) with motifs from lyric genres such as Sappho’s wedding songs.116 Gaze is used primarily to articulate female desire, and the expression of this desire delineates the heroic role of male agents in the Argonautica. On the other hand, Apollonius is barely concerned with Jason’s perception of Hypsipyle or Medea; the male gaze never registers the female presence.117 Fear, awe, and admiration are associated with the male gaze, but never desire, which remains firmly within female purview. Apollonius reverses gender expectations by comparing Jason to a young girl to describe his reaction to the “epiphanic” appearance of the Fleece. The Argonauts are

115 This could be suggested by Sophocles’ Oenomaos fr. 474* TrGF. For Pelops as a foil to Jason see 1.752–58 with Hunter 1993, 57–58. 116 In the Iliad, male beauty is usually appreciated at the moment of the hero’s death (“beauty-brought-low motif”); cf. Griffin 1980, 134–36. 117 Cf. Campbell 1983, 57, 117 n. 6. See, however, passages collected by Forsyth (1979, 109) in column 7 “Male audience Reacts (Desire)” of his table. To these add Pind. Pyth. 9.26–37. Note also the dissociation of male gaze from desire in the Odyssey as discussed by Grethlein this volume, 36–39.

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defined as heroes inasmuch as they make such an impression on a viewer. Associated primarily with Jason, this device affects even the presentation of Aeetes at 3.1225–45. The detailed description of Aeetes’ armour, and especially the similes and remarks on the provenance of some of the items, communicate to both internal and external audiences what Aeetes is capable of. Aeetes need not act; his appearance is enough to command fear to the viewer. There is an almost theatrical quality to such scenes which perhaps reflects the atmosphere prominent in public royal appearances at the time.118 Along similar lines, Apollonius places the emphasis on Jason’s presence and what this may intimate in terms of his capabilities, with Jason often pretending to be capable of what he is not. The field of heroic action is ultimately circumscribed by the powerful gaze of female characters viewing Jason and his comrades.

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Laurens, A.-F. / H. Gallet de Santerre (1986), “Des Hommes aux dieux en Grèce: droit de regard?”, in: Hommages à François Daumas, Montpelier, 463–481. Levin, D. N. (1971), Apollonius’ Argonautica Re-examined: The Neglected First and Second Books, Mnemosyne Suppl. 13, Leiden. Lovatt, H. (2013), The Epic Gaze: Vision, Gender, and Narrative in Ancient Epic, Cambridge. Mette, H. J. (1960), “Schauen und Staunen”, in: Glotta 39, 49–71. Meuli, K. (1921), Odyssee und Argonautika: Untersuchungen zur griechischen Sagengeschichte und zum Epos, Berlin. Miller, D. A. (2000), The Epic Hero, Baltimore. Mooney, G. W. (1912), The Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, London. Mori, A. (2008), The Politics of Apollonius’ Argonautica, Cambridge. Murnaghan, S. (1987), Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey, Princeton. Nagler, M. N. (1974), Spontaneity and Tradition: A Study in the Oral Art of Homer, Berkeley. Nagy, G. (2013), The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours, Cambridge. Natzel, S. A. (1992), Κλέα γυναικῶν: Frauen in den “Argonautika” des Apollonios Rhodios, Trier. Newman, J. K. (1986), The Epic Tradition, Madison. Nyberg, L. (1992), Unity and Coherence: Studies in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica and the Alexandrian Epic Tradition, Lund. Oakley, J. H. / R. H. Sinos (1993), The Wedding in Ancient Athens, Madison. Ormand, K. (2014), The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and Archaic Greece, Cambridge. Paduano, G. / M. Fusillo (1986), Apollonio Rodio, le Argonautiche, Milan. Pötscher, W. (1961), “Hera und Heros”, in: RhM 104, 302–355. Porter, J. R. (1990), “Tiptoeing through the Corpses: Euripides’ Electra, Apollonius, and the Bouphonia”, in: GRBS 31, 255–280. Redfield, J. M. (1994), Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hector, Expanded edition, Chicago. Reitz, C. (1996), Zur Gleichnistechnik des Apollonios von Rhodos, Frankfurt. Richardson, N. J. (1974), The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Oxford. Rose, A. (1985), “Clothing Imagery in Apollonius’ Argonautica”, in: QUCC 21, 29–44. Schein, S. L. (1984), The Mortal Hero: An Introduction to Homer’s Iliad, Berkeley. Schrade, H. (1952), Götter und Menschen Homers, Stuttgart. Scodel, R. (1982), “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction”, in: HSCP 86: 33–50. Segal, C. (1986), Pindar’s Mythmaking: The Fourth Pythian Ode, Princeton. Snell, B. (1931), “Sapphos Gedicht φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος”, in: Hermes 66, 71–90. Thalmann, W. G. (1984), Conventions of Form and Thought in Early Greek Epic, Baltimore. Thiel, K. (1993), Erzählung und Beschreibung in den Argonautika des Apollonios Rhodios: ein Beitrag zur Poetik des hellenistischen Epos, Trier. Thiel, K. (1996), Aietes der Krieger––Jason der Sieger: zum Heldenbild im hellenistischen Epos, Stuttgart. Treu, M. (1955), Von Homer zur Lyrik: Wandlungen des griechischen Weltbildes im Spiegel der Sprache, Munich. Trimble, G. (2010), A Commentary on Catullus 64, lines 1–201, DPhil diss., Oxford University. Turkeltaub, D. W. (2003), The Gods’ Radiance Manifest: An Examination of the Narrative Pattern underlying the Homeric Divine Epiphany Scenes, PhD diss. Cornell University. Van Wees, H. (1992), Status Warriors: War, Violence, and Society in Homer and History, Amsterdam. Vian, F. (1976–1981), Apollonios de Rhodes: Argonautiques, 3 vols., 2nd ed., Paris. Whitman, C. H. (1958), Homer and the Homeric Tradition, New York.

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Gazing at Helen with Stesichorus 155

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οἳ δ’ ὡϲ οὖν εἴδονθ’ Ἑλένην ἐπὶ πύργον ἰοῦϲαν, ἦκα πρὸϲ ἀλλήλουϲ ἔπεα πτερόεντ’ ἀγόρευον· οὐ νέμεϲιϲ Τρῶαϲ καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδαϲ Ἀχαιοὺϲ τοιῆιδ’ ἀμφὶ γυναικὶ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάϲχειν· αἰνῶϲ ἀθανάτηιϲι θεῆιϲ εἰϲ ὦπα ἔοικεν· ἀλλὰ καὶ ὧϲ τοίη περ ἐοῦϲ’ ἐν νηυϲὶ νεέϲθω, μηδ’ ἡμῖν τεκέεϲϲί τ’ ὀπίϲϲω πῆμα λίποιτο. When they saw Helen on her way to the tower, they began to speak winged words quietly to each other. “It is no cause for anger that the Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans should long suffer pains on behalf of such a woman. She is terribly like the immortal goddesses to look upon. Yet even though she is such a woman, let her go home on the ships, nor let her be left as a cause of woe to us and to our children in the future.” Hom. Il. 3.154–60

In Book three of the Iliad the sight of Helen provokes the Trojan elders to reflect on her beauty. Homer never describes what Helen looks like, not even revealing the colour of her hair;1 far more effective to depict such unsurpassable beauty indirectly, by reference to its effect on the men gazing upon her. That reaction consists here not of mere exclamations of amazement, but of a remark of considerable poignancy: Helen’s beauty, they say, is so overwhelming that all the suffering that the Greeks and Trojans are experiencing for her sake is no reason for anger.2 Helen is thereby doubly objectified, by two different groups of men: both the target of the old men’s gaze, and the goal of the young men’s fighting (exemplified by the duel between Menelaus and Paris, which she has just been told is about to take place). The voicing of this remark by old men, who might have been thought above such considerations, makes it all the more powerful, as Quintilian noted:

1 Later poets are not so restrained: cf. Stes. fr. 114.5 F., Sappho fr. 23.5 Voigt, Ibyc. fr. S151.5 PMGF, Finglass 2013a. 2 Cf. ΣA Hom. Il. 3.155b (i 387.41–2 Erbse) κάλλοϲ γυναικὸϲ θαυμάϲαντεϲ τῶν ἰδίων καταφρονοῦϲι κινδύνων (“in amazement at the woman’s beauty they disregard their own perils”). Note: I am grateful to the volume’s anonymous referees for helpful comments. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-007

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illud quoque est ex relatione ad aliquid quod non eius rei gratia dictum videtur amplificationis genus. non putant indignum Troiani principes Graios Troianosque propter Helenae speciem tot mala tanto temporis spatio sustinere: quaenam igitur illa forma credenda est? non enim hoc dicit Paris, qui rapuit, non aliquis iuvenis aut unus e vulgo, sed senes et prudentissimi et Priamo adsidentes. Another type (sc. of amplification) is based on something which appears to have been said for a different purpose. The chief men of Troy think it no discredit for Greek and Trojans to endure so many troubles for so long for the sake of Helen’s beauty. What then must her beauty be believed to be? For it is not Paris, who ravished her, who says this, nor some young man or one of the common people, but the wise old men who are Priam’s counsellors.3 Quint. Inst. 8.4.21

Not much later in the poem Paris does in fact respond to Helen’s beauty in directly erotic tones, but only once the old men have had their say, and without any specific references to sight.4 He too “describ[es] not her appearance but the overwhelming desire that it arouses … Like the elders on the wall, he avoids enumerating the qualities that elicit this reaction”.5 Moreover, nothing is said by him, or by the old men, about Helen’s character – these reactions are provoked solely by her exceptional looks. Put positively, her mere appearance prompts the elders of the city to relax, albeit momentarily, the horror that they would normally have for war, and the hatred that they might naturally feel for its apparent cause.6 And the comparison of Helen to immortal goddesses, one emphasised by the stark asyndeton introducing the line in question, certainly lends her grandeur, even if that comparison is based on looks alone. Yet the emphasis nevertheless falls on the objectification of a woman by men, an objectification which is a cause of the conflict that the poem as a whole depicts. And the limits of that objectification even in its own terms will become clear only a little later, when the audience will be confronted by the difference between a woman who looks like a goddess, and an immortal who actually is one:

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τὴν δὲ χολωϲαμένη προϲεφώνεε δῖ’ Ἀφροδίτη· μή μ’ ἔρεθε ϲχετλίη, μὴ χωϲαμένη ϲε μεθείω, τὼϲ δέ ϲ’ ἀπεχθήρω ὡϲ νῦν ἔκπαγλ’ ἐφίληϲα, μέϲϲωι δ’ ἀμφοτέρων μητίϲομαι ἔχθεα λυγρὰ Τρώων καὶ Δαναῶν, ϲὺ δέ κεν κακὸν οἶτον ὄληαι.

3 Translation by Russell 2001, iii 403. 4 Hom. Il. 3.441–6. 5 Blondell 2013, 55–6. 6 Contrast the criticism voiced of Helen by Greeks (Hom. Il. 19.325) and Trojans (3.50, 3.160) alike.

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ὣϲ ἔφατ’, ἔδειϲεν δ’ Ἑλένη Διὸϲ ἐκγεγαυῖα, βῆ δὲ καταϲχομένη ἑανῶι ἀργῆτι φαεινῶι ϲιγῆι, πάϲαϲ δὲ Τρωιὰϲ λάθεν· ἦρχε δὲ δαίμων. In anger divine Aphrodite addressed her: “Do not provoke me, wretched woman, in case I go off and abandon you, and come to hate you just as much as I have given you my wholehearted friendship, in case, in the middle of both, I devise bitter hatred among the Trojans and Greeks, and you die a terrible death”. Thus she spoke, and Helen, daughter of Zeus, was afraid, and departed in silence, wrapping herself in her gleaming white cloak, and escaped the notice of all the Trojan women. The goddess led the way. Hom. Il. 3.413–20

The proximity of the episodes underlines the limitations of beauty even such as Helen’s; indeed, far from giving her the power or authority of a goddess, Helen’s looks have caused her personal disaster, separated as she is from her real family, bitterly aware of her poor reputation, and unable to defy the goddess whose ends she serves. Just as Helen passively has her beauty appreciated by the old men, so too she features in their description as an unusually passive cause of the war. Nothing is said about her elopement with Paris; nothing about the anger felt by Menelaus at the insult done to him and his house through her choices and actions. Yet elsewhere in the epic Helen proves herself to be far from passive, but rather one of its most self-reflective characters;7 and in the scene to come, far from being a silent target of male admiration and lust, she advises Priam, who treats her with respect, as they look upon the warriors coming to attack his city.8 The old men’s admiration for her beauty, memorably expressed though it is, does not tell us anything like the whole story. This chapter will investigate Helen as the subject of the male gaze not in Homer, but in the first poet known to have engaged systematically with Homer’s poetry: Stesichorus.9 It will consider what is distinctive about Stesichorus’ portrayal of Helen in different poems, paying particular attention to issues of seeing and sight. As in the Iliad passage just quoted, it will become clear that such questions are bound up with moral evaluations of Helen and her actions, and the issue of to what extent she can fairly be characterised as a passive recipient of the male gaze, as opposed to a more active participant in the act of viewing even when she is its target.

7 See Roisman 2006. 8 “Priam breaks in on the elders’ murmuring to call Helen to his side, and Helen, chamaeleonlike, reverses herself again, from spectacle to spectator” (Austin 1994, 44). 9 For Stesichorus’ engagement with Homer see Finglass 2014a, passim and Kelly 2015.

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By far the most famous piece of Stesichorus’ poetry, cited by Plato and Isocrates, and then by countless authors ancient and modern, relates to Helen:10 ἔϲτι δὲ τοῖϲ ἁμαρτάνουϲι περὶ μυθολογίαν καθαρμὸϲ ἀρχαῖοϲ, ὃν Ὅμηροϲ μὲν οὐκ ἤιϲθετο, Στηϲίχοροϲ δέ· τῶν γὰρ ὀμμάτων ϲτερηθεὶϲ διὰ τὴν Ἑλένηϲ κακηγορίαν οὐκ ἠγνόηϲεν ὥϲπερ Ὅμηροϲ, ἀλλ’ ἅτε μουϲικὸϲ ὢν ἔγνω τὴν αἰτίαν καὶ ποιεῖ εὐθύϲ· οὐκ ἔϲτ’ ἔτυμοϲ λόγοϲ οὗτοϲ, οὐδ’ ἔβαϲ ἐν νηυϲὶν ἐϋϲϲέλμοιϲ, οὐδ’ ἵκεο Πέργαμα Τροίαϲ· καὶ ποιήϲαϲ δὴ πᾶϲαν τὴν καλουμένην Παλινωιδίαν παραχρῆμα ἀνέβλεψεν. There is an ancient purification for people who have committed an offence in their telling of myths, which Homer did not know, but Stesichorus did. For on being deprived of his eyes because of his abuse of Helen, he did not fail to discern the cause, as Homer had, but since he was inspired by the Muses, he recognised his error and immediately composed: This story is not true; you did not embark on the well-benched ships nor did you come to the towers of Troy. And after composing the entire Palinode, as it is called, he straightaway recovered his sight. Pl. Phaedr. 243a = Stes. fr. 91a F. ἐνεδείξατο (sc. Ἑλένη) δὲ καὶ Στηϲιχόρωι τῶι ποιητῆι τὴν αὑτῆϲ δύναμιν· ὅτε μὲν γὰρ ἀρχόμενοϲ τῆϲ ὠιδῆϲ ἐβλαϲφήμηϲέ τι περὶ αὐτῆϲ, ἀνέϲτη τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν ἐϲτερημένοϲ, ἐπειδὴ δὲ γνοὺϲ τὴν αἰτίαν τῆϲ ϲυμφορᾶϲ τὴν καλουμένην Παλινωιδίαν ἐποίηϲεν, πάλιν αὐτὸν εἰϲ τὴν αὐτὴν φύϲιν κατέϲτηϲεν. She (sc. Helen) showed her power to the poet Stesichorus, too. For when, as he began his song, he presented her in a somewhat insulting manner, he stood up deprived of his sight. But when he recognised the cause of his misfortune and composed the so-called Palinode, he brought himself back to the same state. Isocr. Hel. 64 = Stes. fr. 91c F.

The old men in the Iliad are moved by the sight of Helen’s appearance to compare her appearance to that of goddesses; they ignore, momentarily, her elopement or abduction, to focus on her beauty and its appropriateness as a justification for the war. Stesichorus’ first poem about Helen, itself called Helen, evidently had no such hesitation in portraying her in more negative terms; in this work she married Menelaus and subsequently abandoned him.11 In a

10 For later ancient references to the story see Davies / Finglass 2014, 338–43, and ibid. 312– 16, 335–8 for a commentary, with further bibliography, on the passages from Plato and Isocrates cited here; for references to the story from the Renaissance onwards see Schade 2015. 11 Stes. frr. 84–9 F.; for an account of this poem see Davies / Finglass 2014, 308, Finglass 2015b.

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subsequent poem, however, Stesichorus offered a more positive assessment of Menelaus’ wife, asserting that she never travelled to Troy, and thus could not fairly be blamed for the war supposedly fought on her behalf. The poem in which he reversed his position was known as the Palinode. A further description of that song, preserved in a fragmentary work of ancient scholarship, gives an additional detail concerning her history:

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[μέμ– φεται τὸν Ὅμηρο[ν ὅτι Ἑ– λέ]νην ἐποίηϲεν ἐν Τ[ροίαι καὶ οὐ τὸ εἴδωλον αὐτῆ[ϲ, ἔν τε τ[ῆι] ἑτέραι τὸν Ἡϲίοδ[ον μέμ[φετ]αι· διτταὶ γάρ εἰϲι πα– λινω〈ι〉δ[ίαι 〈δια〉]λλάττουϲαι, καὶ ἔ– ϲτιν 〈τ〉ῆ〈ϲ〉 μὲν ἀρχή· δεύρ’ αὖ– τε θεὰ φιλόμολπε, τῆϲ δέ· χρυϲόπτερε παρθέ̣νε̣ , ⟦ερ⟧ὡϲ ἀνέγραψε Χαμαιλέων [fr. 29 Giordano]· αὐ– τὸ[ϲ δ]έ φηϲ[ιν ὁ] Στηϲίχορο[ϲ τὸ μὲν ε[ἴδωλο]ν ἐλθεῖ[ν εἰϲ Τροίαν, τὴν δ’ Ἑλένην π[αρὰ τῶι Πρωτεῖ καταμεῖν[αι· … he finds fault with Homer, because he put Helen at Troy, and not her phantom, and in the other he finds fault with Hesiod. For there are two different Palinodes, and the beginning of one of them is “Come here once more, goddess who delights in song”, and of the other, “Golden-winged maiden”, as Chamaeleon wrote. For Stesichorus himself says that the phantom came to Troy, but Helen resided with Proteus. Stes. fr. 90.1–15 F12

Stesichorus thus placed Helen in Egypt, leaving a mere phantom or εἴδωλον at Troy over which the Greeks and Trojans fought out of fatal misapprehension.13 The irony that the object of the male gaze par excellence was hidden away in Egypt will not have been lost on Stesichorus’ audience, and no doubt was part of the appeal that this account would later have for Euripides.14 The story calls into question the extent to which sight can be relied on at all, if two great armies can fight it out for ten years because of something perceptible to the eye but lacking reality. It problematises the very nature of physical beauty, presenting it as a powerful but ultimately insubstantial attribute, something

12 For the remainder of the papyrus, which gives information about the Palinode not relevant here, see Finglass 2013b. 13 For the idea of the εἴδωλον in early Greek literature see Davies / Finglass 2014, 305–6. 14 See Eur. El. 1280–3 and Helen; the latter play is based on this myth.

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for which much toil and suffering is experienced in vain. Ibycus would later describe the Greeks fighting over Helen’s beauty or εἶδοϲ; and “it is a short step from conceiving of that beauty as the cause of war to the notion of fighting over an eidōlon identical in appearance”.15 Thus the εἴδωλον motif, although providing from one point of view a radically new take on the myth of Helen, from another perspective merely highlights an intrinsic aspect of the original story. Given the significant part that sight and vision seems to have played in Stesichorus’ Palinode, it is of particular interest that Plato’s account of this poem and its predecessor is so bound up with the same motif. Helen, that most pleasing object to men’s eyes, revenges herself on a poet who had told the conventional story of her life by taking away that poet’s eyesight. Only when he recants his insults does she restore his vision. In this story the sighted Stesichorus “sees” Helen awry; the blind Stesichorus, by contrast, appreciates her true nature, and reflects that in his poetry.16 This is reminiscent of the whole idea of the blind prophet, the seer who, despite physical blindness, can see the ways of the gods with clarity; this is exemplified most powerfully in the figure of Tiresias.17 Unfortunately, we do not know what role blindness played in either of Stesichorus’ poems referred to by Plato. Did Stesichorus mention his blindness? The odds are against it, since there are no such personal references anywhere else in what survives of his work; in this respect he stands closer to epic than to other archaic lyric.18 Moreover, although Plato takes the trouble to cite his poem, he does not quote anything connected with blindness (this, an argument from silence, is not as weighty as the previous one). Nevertheless, blindness seems a punishment appropriate enough. The Palinode, as we have seen, called into question the truth of what one can see, through the εἴδωλον that took Helen’s place at Troy; how appropriate that the impetus behind that poem should be the temporary blinding of the poet by Helen herself. So although the biographical tradition provided by Plato and Isocrates probably did not have any actual basis in Stesichorus’ life, and is most unlikely to reflect even any first-person remark in his poem, it does nevertheless show a sophisticated appreciation of what will have been an important aspect of this poem, adapting

15 Ibyc. fr. S151.5 PMGF ξα]ν̣θᾶϲ Ἑ̣ λέναϲ περὶ ε̣ἴδει | [δῆ]ρ̣ιν πολύυμνον ἔχ[ο]ντεϲ | [πό]λεμον̣ κ̣ατὰ [δ]ακρ[υό]εντα (“[the Greeks] pursuing strife that is celebrated in song during woeful war concerning the form of blonde Helen”); Blondell 2013, 118. 16 For blindness as a punishment see Davies / Finglass 2014, 336, on fr. 91a F. 17 See Soph. OR 370–5, 388–9, 747. 18 See further Lefkowitz 2012, 38.

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a theme of the Palinode into the biographical story of the man who composed it. In the absence of any text from the work beyond the brief quotations from Plato and the papyrus above, this is all that we can say. The portrayal of Helen is significant in another of Stesichorus’ poems. In his Sack of Troy Helen experiences a near-stoning at the hands of the Greek army:19 ἆρα εἰϲ τὸ τῆϲ Ἑλένηϲ κάλλοϲ βλέψαντεϲ οὐκ ἐχρήϲαντο τοῖϲ ξίφεϲιν; οἷόν τι καὶ Στηϲίχοροϲ ὑπογράφει περὶ τῶν καταλεύειν αὐτὴν μελλόντων. φηϲὶ γὰρ ἅμα τῶι τὴν ὄψιν αὐτῆϲ ἰδεῖν αὐτοὺϲ ἀφεῖναι τοὺϲ λίθουϲ ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν. Was it because they saw Helen’s beauty that they did not use their swords? Stesichorus too describes something like this concerning the people who were intending to stone her. For he says that as soon as they saw her appearance, they let the stones fall to the ground. Σ Eur. Or. 1287 = fr. 106 F.20

Stesichorus’ account is apparently unique. The more familiar version, in which Helen disrobes in order to preserve herself from her estranged husband Menelaus, is described by a character in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata: ὁ γῶν Μενέλαοϲ τᾶϲ Ἑλέναϲ τὰ μᾶλά παι γυμνᾶϲ παραϜιδὼν ἐξέβαλ’, οἰῶ, τὸ ξίφοϲ. When Menelaus saw the apples of the naked Helen, he dropped, I believe, his sword. Ar. Lys. 155–6

The first probable attested appearance of the scene is found on the Mykonos pithos dated to around 675 which features the earliest depiction of the Trojan horse;21 Menelaus draws his sword as he approaches Helen, and the viewer is probably to understand that Helen’s beauty, and perhaps her disrobing, will cause him to spare her. A scholium on the Aristophanes passage reveals that the same version occurred both in the Little Iliad and in Ibycus.22 The prose 19 Both Stesichorus’ account of the sack, and the hexameter account from the Epic Cycle, have the name Ἰλίου Πέρϲιϲ; for clarity I refer to Stesichorus’ poem as the Sack of Troy, to the epic poem as the Iliu Persis. 20 The fragment is not explicitly attributed to Stesichorus’ Sack of Troy, but any other attribution is problematic, whereas it fits that poem admirably; see further Davies / Finglass 2014, 436–7. 21 See Kahil 1988, §225. 22 Σ Ar. Lys. 155a = p. 12 Hangard; Il. Parv. fr. 28 GEF; Ibyc. fr. 296 PMGF. For Stesichorus’ relationship to the Εpic Cycle see Carey 2015. West 2013, 170 remarks with reference to this episode that “one senses that the older conventions of heroic epic are being modified by the admission of more comical and romantic elements”; equally, however, our view of what older epic contained may be affected by the deliberate austerity of the Homeric epics, which exclude all kinds of elements attested in later epic that may well have been found in pre-Homeric epic too.

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summary by Proclus of the cyclic Iliu Persis says only that Menelaus found Helen and brought her back to the ships, after killing Deiphobus, to whom she had been married after the death of Paris;23 perhaps it offered a similar account to that of the Little Iliad. In the fifth century the story is mentioned in Euripides’ Andromache,24 and appears several times in visual art in the sixth and fifth centuries, which shows Helen unveiling herself rather than engaging in any more dramatic uncovering.25 There is no mention of the event in the Odyssey, however, in any of its accounts of the sack; “such a lurid episode”, says Griffin, “is un-Homeric in atmosphere”.26 Stesichorus’ account is not found elsewhere. Although attested just as early as the version in which Menelaus encounters his wife, it is more likely to be secondary, for two reasons. First, the Menelaus version is attested across different types of literature (epic and lyric), as well as visual art, already in the archaic period, whereas Stesichorus’ version is unique, and thus easier to explain as the creation of a single artist which was not imitated by others. Second, the encounter between husband and wife seems more fundamental and organic to the myth, especially in the context of a story where each individual hero has a particular action associated with him (Neoptolemus kills Priam, Locrian Ajax rapes Cassandra, Demophon and Acamas rescue Aethra, and so on),27 and where the action associated with Menelaus can only be the recovery of Helen. The mass of the soldiery, by contrast, are not associated with any particular action other than the sack of the city itself. We should consider it a deliberate Stesichorean innovation against an already pre-existing tradition; this would suit a poem which we know was highly original from its very opening.28 Although Stesichorus’ account is not explicitly attested elsewhere, there may nevertheless be two echoes of it, at whatever remove, in Euripides. First, in his Trojan Women, where Menelaus brusquely tells Helen

23 Il. Pers. arg. 2 GEF Μενέλαοϲ δὲ ἀνευρὼν Ἑλένην ἐπὶ τὰϲ ναῦϲ κατάγει, Δηΐφοβον φονεύϲαϲ (“Menelaus found Helen and brought her to the ships, after slaying Deiphobus”). 24 Eur. Andr. 628–31 (Peleus to Menelaus) οὐκ ἔκτανεϲ γυναῖκα χειρίαν λαβών, | ἀλλ’, ὡϲ ἐϲεῖδεϲ μαϲτόν, ἐκβαλὼν ξίφοϲ | φίλημ’ ἐδέξω, προδότιν αἰκάλλων κύνα, | ἥϲϲων πεφυκὼϲ Κύπριδοϲ, ὦ κάκιϲτε ϲύ (“You did not kill your wife when you took her prisoner, but, when you saw her breast, you cast aside your sword and received her kiss, fawning over the betraying bitch, proving weaker than Cypris, you villain”). 25 For details and references see Davies / Finglass 2014, 437. 26 Thus Griffin 2011, 336. 27 Thus Tsagalis ap. Finglass 2015a, 353. 28 Stes. fr. 100 F.; see Finglass 2013c.

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βαῖνε λευϲτήρων πέλαϲ 1040 πόνουϲ τ᾿ Ἀχαιῶν ἀπόδοϲ ἐν ϲμικρῶι μακροὺϲ θανοῦϲ᾿, ἵν᾿ εἰδῆιϲ μὴ καταιϲχύνειν ἐμέ Go to the people who will stone you, and give a return for the long toils of the Achaeans in a brief moment by your death, so that you know not to put me to shame Eur. Tro. 1039–41

This is a fate which the audience knows she will somehow escape.29 At a greater distance from Stesichorus’ poem, in Orestes Electra describes Menelaus’ precautions about conveying Helen into his palace when returning to Greece from Troy:

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ἥκει γὰρ ἐϲ γῆν Μενέλεωϲ Τροίαϲ ἄπο, λιμένα δὲ Ναυπλίειον ἐκπληρῶν πλάτηι ἀκταῖϲιν ὁρμεῖ, δαρὸν ἐκ Τροίαϲ χρόνον ἄλαιϲι πλαγχθείϲ· τὴν δὲ δὴ πολυκτόνον Ἑλένην, φυλάξαϲ νύκτα, μή τιϲ εἰϲιδὼν μεθ’ ἡμέραν ϲτείχουϲαν ὧν ὑπ’ Ἰλίωι παῖδεϲ τεθνᾶϲιν, ἐϲ πέτρων ἔλθηι βολάϲ, προύπεμψεν ἐϲ δῶμ’ ἡμέτερον· For Menelaus has returned to the land from Troy, and, filling the Nauplian harbour with his fleet, he is at harbour on the beach, having wandered from Troy for a long time in his meanderings. But as for Helen, responsible as she was for many deaths, he waited for night, in case anyone whose children died at Troy should see her coming during the day, and she should encounter an assault of stones, and sent her into our house. Eur. Or. 53–60

The idea of Helen escaping a stoning may have been inspired by Stesichorus; and some of Euripides’ audience may have felt such a connexion.30 The former passage may be particularly close, and may have encouraged spectators to wonder whether her survival within the world of Euripides’ play will result from the same cause. The familiar account of Helen’s rescue pitted husband against wife in a personal, intimate encounter closely tied with an individual man’s passionate desire, based on sexual jealousy, for revenge. In Stesichorus, by contrast, Helen’s near-punishment takes place before a mass audience, in public, and presumably after the sack; during that grim episode the soldiers will have had

29 In the lines that follow Menelaus is persuaded first by Helen not to kill her at once, and then by Hecuba to ensure that she travels in a different ship from him (1042–54); Euripides seems to be emphasising that for all his bluster, Menelaus is a man whose mind is easily swayed by forceful women. See futher Croally 1994, 158–9, although he believes that the matter remains unresolved. 30 For the influence of Stesichorus on tragedy see Swift 2015, Finglass forthcoming.

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other tasks assigned them, and would not appreciate laying aside their swords for mere stones. It may imply some quasi-judicial proceedings that sanctioned this punishment, but even if it this episode was more of a lynching, it does suggest at least the acquiescence of the Greek leaders in what the soliders are doing. Moreover, Stesichorus’ Helen confronts far more foes ranged against her than in the traditional tale; and this means her beauty affects not just one man, but a whole army, or a great part of one.31 It was no doubt an episode of high emotion within the poem, occurring as it did towards its climax, as the woman on whose behalf the city of Troy was sacked is nearly herself killed by the very people who have paid such a price to rescue her. The picture of a lone woman at the mercy of a whole army would be powerfully exploited in Attic tragedy. We may think of Iphigenia in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, or Polyxena in Euripides’ Hecuba,32 both of whom were sacrificed in front of the troops. Polyxena’s sacrifice probably was described in Stesichorus’ poem too,33 but we know nothing about how it was portrayed there or whether it came before or after the near-stoning of Helen. In these the act of killing was performed by a single person, with the army as silent, consenting witnesses; the stoning of Helen, by contrast, makes them into active participants in the deed. Stoning in the ancient world was a punishment meted out by the community;34 by arranging Helen’s punishment in this way, Stesichorus expresses her total alienation from the entire people who have just sacked a city in order to recover her. Euripides’ narrative of Polyxena’s death is particularly suggestive in the present context:

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κἀπεὶ τόδ’ εἰϲήκουϲε δεϲποτῶν ἔποϲ, λαβοῦϲα πέπλουϲ ἐξ ἄκραϲ ἐπωμίδοϲ ἔρρηξε λαγόναϲ ἐϲ μέϲαϲ παρ’ ὀμφαλὸν μαϲτούϲ τ’ ἔδειξε ϲτέρνα θ’ ὡϲ ἀγάλματοϲ κάλλιϲτα, καὶ καθεῖϲα πρὸϲ γαῖαν γόνυ ἔλεξε πάντων τλημονέϲτατον λόγον· Ἰδού, τόδ’, εἰ μὲν ϲτέρνον, ὦ νεανία, παίειν προθυμῆι, παῖϲον, εἰ δ’ ὑπ’ αὐχένα χρήιζειϲ πάρεϲτι λαιμὸϲ εὐτρεπὴϲ ὅδε. ὁ δ’ οὐ θέλων τε καὶ θέλων οἴκτωι κόρηϲ τέμνει ϲιδήρωι πνεύματοϲ διαρροάϲ·

31 Cf. Davies / Finglass 2014, 437. 32 Aesch. Ag. 192–247, Eur. Hec. 518–82. 33 See fr. 105 F., the Tabula Iliaca Capitolina, on which more below. 34 For stoning in antiquity more generally see Forsdyke 2008, 37–41, Finglass 2011, on Soph. Aj. 253/4–256n.

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κρουνοὶ δ’ ἐχώρουν. ἡ δὲ καὶ θνήιϲκουϲ’ ὅμωϲ πολλὴν πρόνοιαν εἶχεν εὐϲχήμων πεϲεῖν, κρύπτουϲ’ ἃ κρύπτειν ὄμματ’ ἀρϲένων χρεών. And when she heard this speech from her masters, she gripped her robe from the top of her shoulder and ripped it to the middle of her flank, to her navel, and revealed her breasts and most beautiful chest, like that of a statue, and sinking her knee to the ground she spoke the most wretched speech of all: “There, young man, if you desire to strike my chest, strike it; and if you wish to strike under my neck, my throat is here for you”. But he, both unwilling and unwilling, through pity for the girl, cut the channels of her breath with the iron. Streams gushed forth. And she, as she died, nevertheless took great concern to fall in a decent manner, hiding what ought to be hidden from men’s eyes. Eur. Hec. 557–70

Polyxena’s death is dominated by nakedness. She dramatically exposes herself, with the narrator (naturally, a male) briefly dilating over the body parts that thereby become visible; yet when she died, she preserves her maiden modesty by ensuring that the Greek soldiers did not see her nakedness. This behaviour seems self-contradictory – why should she apparently invite the male gaze only to take care to block it seconds later? The answer presumably is that in her initial action she “offer[s] up her bosom like a warrior”;35 her brief seminakedness in front of the soldiers is an unintended consequence of this, one whose effects she takes care to limit by falling as modestly as possible. Nevertheless, the effect on the spectators of the play, as on the spectators within the play, is to eroticise the killing of a young woman; to present an uncomfortable juxtaposition of sexual attractiveness and death, at the same time as highlighting the vulnerability of the victim.36 The picture of a woman’s beauty being appreciated by soliders just ahead of the moment appointed for her demise has an obvious connexion to the episode in Stesichorus. One crucial gap in our evidence, however, stands in the way of any unproblematic comparison. Did Stesichorus’ Helen disrobe? The scholium does not state that she did, only that the army was overcome by her appearance (ὄψιϲ). That does not prove that she did not; the argument from silence has no force here, not least as the passage from Euripides on which the scholium is commenting refers to Helen’s beauty (κάλλοϲ), not her nakedness, and it would be natural for the reference to Stesichorus to emphasise the aspect of the story that corresponded most closely to that. The episode which Stesicho-

35 Thus Loraux 1987, 60 ≈ 1985, 97. 36 For discussion of the passage see further Mossman 1995, 157–60, although it will be apparent from my account above that I cannot agree with M.’s remark that “any appeal to sexuality was unconscious on the part of author and audience” (p. 144).

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rus is adapting, Helen’s encounter with Menelaus, certainly did involve disrobing. There is a reasonable chance that Stesichorus incorporated this motif in his version too; on the other hand, that might have been an aspect of the story that he changed just as he changed the identity, and the number, of Helen’s intended killers, as well as (most probably) the timing of the encounter. As a result of this uncertainty, we do not know exactly how in Stesichorus Helen’s beauty saved her life. Did she stand passively, awaiting the assault, only to be surprised at the soldiers’ reaction to her looks? Or did she by disrobing make use of the “resource” of her naked body? This would emphasise the utter peril of her state, since nakedness in front of men was thought to be something especially shameful for a woman.37 It would emphasise the peril of her situation, that she was forced to make such a decision. But it would also make Helen into the dominant force in the scene, actively countering the threat to her life by manipulating the male gaze of which she might usually be thought to be the victim. Such a passage would stand close to the narrative from Hecuba described above, where Polyxena’s actions make her a commanding presence despite her defenceless state. Whatever choice Stesichorus made concerning this crucial detail, the episode is certainly a prominent instance of the presence of the male gaze in archaic literature. We may think, and so perhaps did Stesichorus’ audience, of the words of the old men from the Iliad with which we began, words showing an unusually mild attitude towards this woman who has brought their city into such a plight. Both the old men there, and the young men here, are softened by seeing Helen’s beauty. Moreover, Helen preserves her life not through any argument (we may think of her debate with Hecuba in Euripides’ Trojan Women), or through her force of character, but by means of her beauty, perhaps even through partial nakedness. This might be thought to objectify her, and to an extent it does; on the other hand, the resources available to a single woman in the face of a hostile army were limited, and it would be a harsh audience that did not allow Helen to make use of whatever she had to hand. It is not impossible that Stesichorus’ Sack of Troy featured Helen’s encounter with Menelaus as well as her brush with the army. The Tabula Iliaca Capitolina, which claims to portray “The sack of Troy according to Stesichorus”, contains an image depicting the encounter between Menelaus and Helen, but nothing corresponding to the attempt of the Greeks to stone Helen. Some scholars have taken this to be inconsistent with the version found in the Euripides scholium above, since (in this view) Helen will not have narrowly escaped

37 Cf. Hdt. 1.8.3 ἅμα δὲ κιθῶνι ἐκδυομένωι ϲυνεκδύεται καὶ τὴν αἰδῶ γυνή (“on removing her tunic a woman simultaneously removes her sense of shame too”), on which see Cairns 1996.

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death twice in the same poem in a similar fashion. Even if we accept that the two stories are mutually inconsistent, the apparent contradiction can be explained by the fact that it would have been difficult to depict the near-stoning in the limited space available to the sculptor, whereas fitting in Helen’s encounter with Menelaus was a simple matter; the artist was entitled to use a different version of the myth under such circumstances.38 It remains possible, however, that Helen’s beauty saved her not only from the army, but also from an enraged Menelaus, in the course of Stesichorus’ poem; the Aristophanic scholium would then have missed a further archaic parallel for Menelaus’ meeting with his wife, but such carelessness would be far from unparalleled in ancient (or indeed modern) scholarship. A passage from this very encounter may even be preserved on P.Oxy. 2619, a papyrus from the late second or third century ad which contained a copy of the poem. It reads as follows:

5
ὣϲ φά]το· τὰν [δ(ὲ) −−−

lovely … thus … him/her/it … love … of ill-repute … [Thus] s/he s[poke; and] … her … Stes. fr. 115 F.

Not enough of the fragment survives for us to identify it for sure. But the possibility is worth raising that the speaker is Helen, and the addressee Menelaus.39 The final line, if correctly supplemented,40 indicates the end of a speech delivered by a woman, who is then addressed in her turn; that is the most likely interpretation of the accusative τάν, and a reference to a speech-end would be well placed at the opening of a stanza, here indeed of a triad.41 The speech may have begun in line 2; ὧδε δέ νιν suggests the opening of a speech, and the dotted letter which follows this expression is either gamma or pi;42 thus

38 For discussion and references see Finglass 2014b. 39 Thus West 1969, 141. 40 By W. S. Barrett ap. Davies and Finglass 2014. 41 For the coincidence of speech beginning/end with stanza beginning/end see Davies / Finglass 2014, 270, on fr. 15.5–6 F. 42 Thus Lobel 1967, 48.

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Führer suggests π̣[οτέφα “she addressed”.43 The shortness of the speech “may suggest urgency and/or a dialogue between two characters in which several such speeches were exchanged”;44 this would suit the encounter between the once and future spouses. There is even a hypothetical reconstruction of lines 3–4 – one that falls short of proof, but which nevertheless is attractive and in no way unStesichorean – that runs π̣ῶϲ ἀγαπάζ[εαι, ἃ | δ]υϲώνυμοϲ̣ [πάντεϲϲιν ̣ ἀνθρώποιϲίν εἰμι;, “How can you love me, I who am of ill repute among all people?”45 In the following line, τεκ[ may be a remnant of τέκ[οϲ, which could be a reference to the child of Menelaus and Helen, Hermione; if the reconstruction of 3–4 is correct, the sense could be continued along the lines of “Who could have abandoned her child in the way that I did?”46 All this is plausible, if unprovable. If it is right, then Stesichorus did indeed include Helen’s encounter with Menelaus in his poem, and this episode was, most likely, one of heightened emotional tension, marked by several speeches. By the stage that our fragment may depict, Menelaus would have expressed his love to an unbelieving Helen, one who, as the Helen of the Iliad does so often, is gripped by passionate self-loathing as she contemplates her actions. But her apparent expression of such self-loathing – under this hypothesis – indicates that she is not currently in danger of her life; indeed, she seems surprised that Menelaus is treating her with affection rather than fearful of imminent punishment by a revengeful spouse. Did Stesichorus subvert the dominant epic portrayal of this encounter, by making Menelaus seek Helen out of love rather than a desire to kill or punish her? Helen’s surprise at his reaction – one which means that she does not need to plead with him or to expose herself – then takes on a metaliterary quality, highlighting the poet’s deviation from the expected account of a furious husband as much as Helen’s own amazement at what had happened. Or was Menelaus initially angry, but overcome with passion for Helen once she had disrobed? Their exchange would then have progressed to the point where Helen felt safe enough to express her hatred of herself, secure in the knowledge that her beauty had secured her survival. But that might make the episode excessively long, in a poem with many different incidents to cover. The presence of the near-stoning by the army later in the work tells us nothing either way about whether Helen’s beauty was also employed here. If it was, Helen’s manipulation of the male gaze becomes even more striking, if

43 44 45 46

Thus Führer 1971b, 253–4. Thus Davies and Finglass 2014, 447. Slings 1994, 105. Thus Davies / Finglass 2014, 448.

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she uses her beauty, the beauty which indirectly caused the war in the first place, to avoid successive acts of violence against herself. It should again be emphasised, however, that some of these considerations are prompted by a reconstruction that, however attractive, remains hypothetical; we cannot even be certain that this passage relates to Menelaus and Helen at all. If only we had more of this tantalising scene, potentially so rich in its implications for our understanding of Helen’s portrayal in early literature. A further fragment also possibly related to an encounter between Menelaus and Helen runs as follows:

5


−− κ]ορυφαῖϲι νάπαιϲ[(ί) τε ×−]ων ϲτυγερὸν ×−]δα παίδα φίλον . [×−−× −−] . ο̣ λέγω μηδ[−−− ×−]ω̣ . . ρο ̣ .. πω⟦ι⟧[ ×−]οντο γένοιτ᾿ . [×−− ].[

ep. 4–ant. 7

str.

ant.

immediately … clear(ly) … mules … Cyprus-born … of sea-purple … holy … immortals … Hermione … I desire … night … foot … secretly snatched … tawny … in the peaks and glens … dear child … may it be Stes. fr. 113 F.

Content makes Helen very likely to be the speaker, especially lines 9–11; compare how in the Odyssey she refers to the time “when she (Aphrodite) led me there away from my dear native land, leaving my child, bedroom, and husband” (ὅτε μ᾿ ἤγαγε κεῖϲε φίληϲ ἀπὸ πατρίδοϲ αἴηϲ, | παῖδά τ᾿ ἐμὴν νοϲφιϲϲαμένην θάλαμόν τε πόϲιν τε, 4.262–3), and how in Triphiodorus Athena asks her “nor do you long for your daughter Hermione?” (οὐδὲ θύγατρα |

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Ἑρμιόνην ποθέειϲ;, 493–4). The relevant passage here (lines 9–11) might be supplemented ἀθανάτοι[ϲιν εἴκε]λον Ἑρμιόναν τ . [ −−×− ἐ]γων ̣ ποθέω νύκτ̣[αϲ τε καὶ ἄματα, “I long for … Hermione night and day, who resembled the immortals”.47 ὑφαρπάγιμον might also be a reference to Helen herself, albeit probably a tendentious one, making her seem an entirely passive victim of Paris’ wiles, rather than in any way a willing abandoner of her husband.48 Such a discussion of her abduction/elopement would fall naturally into an account of her encounter with Menelaus, as she reminded him of her love for their child, and attempted to present her departure from Sparta as something that took place contrary to her will; here she would be striking a more self-defensive tone compared to what we saw in the other fragment. Whether or not Helen exposed herself to Menelaus, she does not seem to be relying on beauty alone to persuade her husband; if this fragment comes from that encounter, she employs the full force of her rhetoric to achieve her ends. Dealing with Stesichorus’ poetry is so often a frustrating exercise: individual fragments and phrases are hard to set into any wider context.49 Yet the dramatic impact of Helen’s physical form on spectators nevertheless has a parallel elsewhere in his slender corpus, in a fragment of the Geryoneis, in which Geryon is addressed by his mother Callirhoe ahead of his battle with Heracles:50


−] ἐ̣γὼν̣ [μελέ]α καὶ ἀλαϲ– ̣ τοτόκοϲ κ]αὶ ἄλ̣[αϲ]τ̣α̣ π̣α̣θοῖϲα − Γ]αρυόνα γωναζόμα[ι, αἴ ποκ᾿ ἐμ]ό̣ν τιν μαζ[ὸν] ἐ̣[πέϲχ −−]ω̣ μον γ[− ̣ − −−] −−] φίλαι γανυθ̣[ε  −−]ρ̣ οϲύναιϲ > −−]δ̣εα πέπλ[ον ].[ .. ]κλυ…. [ −−]ρευγων· ̣ −−−]γονελ[− ̣

ant. 9–str. 4 ep.

str.

47 Thus Page, SLG, Führer 1971, 253. 48 Thus Davies / Finglass 2014, 442–3. 49 So a further reference to Helen in the poem, at fr. 112.5–6 F., ξ]α̣νθὰ δ᾿ Ἑλένα̣ Π̣ ρ[ιάμοιο νυὸϲ βα]ϲιλῆοϲ ἀοιδιμ̣ … [ (“golden-haired Helen, daughter-in-law of Priam the king”), is followed not long after by 8–9 δα]ΐωι πυρὶ καιομ̣ε̣ν[̣ − | ×−]πρήϲανταϲ̣ “burning with destructive blaze … setting on fire”, but whether this is Helen talking about the sack of the city, or someone else associating the two, and whether the passage is critical or exculpatory, is not possible to say. 50 Thus Lobel 1967, 10.

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… I, unhappy woman, miserable in the child I bore, miserable in my sufferings I supplicate …, Geryon if ever I held out my breast to you … robe … Stes. fr. 17 F.

Callirhoe implores Geryon not to fight Heracles; this is evident from the similarity with the passage in Iliad 22 where Hecuba exposes her breast and begs her son Hector to avoid Achilles:51

80

85

90

μήτηρ δ’ αὖθ’ ἑτέρωθεν ὀδύρετο δάκρυ χέουϲα κόλπον ἀνιεμένη, ἑτέρηφι δὲ μαζὸν ἀνέϲχε· καί μιν δάκρυ χέουϲ’ ἔπεα πτερόεντα προϲηύδα· Ἕκτορ, τέκνον ἐμόν, τάδε τ᾿ αἴδεο καί μ᾿ ἐλέηϲον αὐτήν, εἴ ποτέ τοι λαθικηδέα μαζὸν ἐπέϲχον, τῶν μνῆϲαι φίλε τέκνον ἄμυνε δὲ δήϊον ἄνδρα τείχεοϲ ἐντὸϲ ἐών, μὴ δὲ πρόμοϲ ἵϲταϲο τούτωι ϲχέτλιοϲ· εἴ περ γάρ ϲε κατακτάνηι, οὔ ϲ’ ἔτ’ ἔγωγε κλαύϲομαι ἐν λεχέεϲϲι φίλον θάλοϲ, ὃν τέκον αὐτή, οὐδ’ ἄλοχοϲ πολύδωροϲ· ἄνευθε δέ ϲε μέγα νῶϊν Ἀργείων παρὰ νηυϲὶ κύνεϲ ταχέεϲ κατέδονται. ὣϲ τώ γε κλαίοντε προϲαυδήτην φίλον υἱὸν πολλὰ λιϲϲομένω· οὐδ’ Ἕκτορι θυμὸν ἔπειθον, ἀλλ’ ὅ γε μίμν’ Ἀχιλῆα πελώριον ἆϲϲον ἰόντα. In turn his mother, on the other side, was lamenting, pouring forth tears and opening her robe, and with her other hand she took out her breast; and pouring forth tears, she addressed winged words to him: “Hector, my child, show respect for this and pity me, if I ever offered you a soothing breast. Remember these things, dear child, and ward off the hostile man while inside the walls, but do not stand, hard-hearted man! For if he should kill you, I will not lament you, dear shoot, on your bed, I who gave birth to you, nor will your wife, rich in her dowry. But far away from us, the swift dogs will eat you, great though you are, by the ships of the Argives”. Thus the two of them [i.e. Priam and Hecuba] addressed their dear son, making great entreaties; but they did not persuade Hector’s spirit, but he awaited the approach of the monstrous Achilles. Hom. Il. 22.79–89

Thanks to the Homeric allusion, Geryon is both elevated and humanised through the implicit comparison to Hector, turning him into a figure of considerable pathos.52 Line 83 suggests the missing verb in line 5 of the Stesichorus passage, either ἐ̣[πέϲχον or ἐ̣[πέϲχεθον.53 In the Stesichorean fragment it seems that Callirhoe finishes speaking and unfastens her robe to expose her breast, as Hecuba does, but before rather than after her speech.54 In line 10 θυώ]δ̣εα and εὐώ]δ̣εα

51 52 53 54

For the whole motif of breast-baring in Greek literature see Castellaneta 2013. Cf. Davies and Finglass 2014, 278–9. These were put forward by Barrett and Page respectively, both in LGS. Thus Barrett 1968, 17.

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(both “fragrant”) are possible supplements;55 if θυώ]δ̣εα is right, the phrase ὣϲ φαῖϲα “speaking thus” might have stood before it,56 appropriately enough signalling the end of a speech at the start of a stanza, here of a triad.57 The passage also evokes (in its language, if not its breast-baring) Thetis’ words to Achilles on two occasions in the Iliad: τί νύ ϲ᾿ ἔτρεφον αἰνὰ τεκοῦϲα; (“Why did I rear you, unhappy as I was in giving birth?”) and ὤιμοι ἐγὼ δειλή, ὤιμοι δυϲαριϲτοτόκεια (“Alas for me in my wretchedness, alas for me, unhappy in giving birth to the best of men”).58 As a whole it greatly dignifies the monster. Let us suppose that in the fragment discussed earlier, Helen did disrobe in front of the Greek soldiers. This sets up a series of fascinating parallels and contrasts with the Geryoneis passage. In both a woman partially disrobes as a means of persuading her male audience. But Callirhoe’s breast-baring is maternal; Helen’s disrobing is erotic. Callirhoe’s is intended to preserve the life of her son; Helen’s to preserve her own. Callirhoe’s audience is a single individual (albeit one with three heads); Helen’s a whole army. Callirhoe’s is tragically unsuccessful; Helen’s is successful, although the tragedy caused by her beauty is elsewhere in that poem only too apparent. Both episodes will have been moments of great intensity in their respective poems; both bring out the power of words to suggest the rhetorical power of the human form, perhaps the naked human form, on the spectator. Stesichorus’ account of Helen, as we have seen, was so mistaken that Helen herself deprived him of his sight. I must hope that a similar fate will not befall me for any inaccuracies in the analysis above; but if confronted by the vengeful Helen of Stesichorus, I could at least plead that the fragmentary nature of the evidence means that our own gaze at her can be only partial. Let us hope that one day the appearance of fresh material will give us a better picture.59

55 The first is owed to Barrett. 56 Führer 1977, 9. 57 See n. 42. 58 Hom. Il. 1.414, 18.54. 59 A new papyrus of the Sack of Troy is far more likely than one of the Palinode; we already have two of the former, one from the late second or third century, whereas the last piece of evidence that we have for anyone reading the Palinode directly is from the fourth century bc. Still, it is possible that some reference could be made to it in a new papyrus of a different author, as in the case of the papyrus citing Chamaeleon above.

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Abbreviations Erbse F. GEF Giordano Hangard

LGS PMGF SLG Voigt

H. Erbse (ed.), Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem (Scholia Vetera), 7 vols., Berlin 1969–88. P. J. Finglass, ‘Text and critical apparatus’, in Davies/Finglass (2014) 93–204. M. L. West (ed.), Greek Epic Fragments from the Seventh to the Fifth Centuries BC, Cambridge, MA and London 2003. D. Giordano (ed.), Chamaeleontis Heracleotae fragmenta2 (Edizioni e saggi universitari di filologia classica 45), Bologna 1990. [1st edn 1977]. J. Hangard (ed.), Scholia in Aristophanem, Pars ii. Scholia in Vespas, Pacem, Aves et Lysistratam; Fasc. iv, continens Scholia in Aristophanis Lysistratam, Groningen 1996. D. L. Page (ed.), Lyrica Graeca Selecta, Oxford 1968, corrected 1973. M. Davies (ed.), Poetarum Melicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, 1 vol. to date, Oxford 1991–. D. L. Page (ed.), Supplementum lyricis Graecis. Poetarum lyricorum Graecorum fragmenta quae recens innotuerunt, Oxford 1974. E.-M. Voigt (ed.), Sappho et Alcaeus. Fragmenta, Amsterdam 1971.

Bibliography Andújar, R. / Coward, T. R. P. / Hadjimichael, T. (eds.) (2018), Paths of Song. The Lyric Dimension of Greek Tragedy (Trends in Classics supplement 58), Berlin / Boston. Austin, N. (1994), Helen of Troy and her Shameless Phantom, Ithaca / London. Barrett, W. S. (1968), “Stesichoros and the story of Geryon”, lecture at the Oxford Triennial, published in: id., Greek Lyric, Tragedy, and Textual Criticism. Collected Papers, assembled and edited by M. L. West, Oxford 2007, 1–24, the pagination of which I cite. Blondell, R. (2013), Helen of Troy. Beauty, Myth, Devastation, Oxford. Breglia, L. / Moleti, A. (2014) (eds.), Hespería. Tradizioni, rotte, paesaggi (Tekmeria 16), Paestum. Cairns, D. L. (1996), “Off with her αἰδώς: Herodotus 1.8.3–4”, in: CQ ns 46, 78–83. Carey, C. (2015), “Stesichorus and the Epic Cycle”, in Finglass / Kelly (2015), 45–62. Castellaneta, S. (2013), Il seno svelato ad misericordiam. Esegesi e fortuna di un’immagine omerica (Biblioteca della tradizione classica 9), Bari. Croally, N. T. (1994), Euripidean Polemic. The Trojan Women and the Function of Tragedy, Cambridge. Davies, M. / Finglass, P. J. (2014), Stesichorus. The Poems (Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 54), Cambridge. Fantuzzi, M. / Tsagalis, C. (2015) (eds.), The Greek Epic Cycle and its Ancient Reception. A Companion, Cambridge. Finglass, P. J. (2011), Sophocles. Ajax (Classical Texts and Commentaries 48), Cambridge. Finglass, P. J. (2013a), review of P. Grossardt, Stesichoros zwischen kultischer Praxis, mythischer Tradition und eigenem Kunstanspruch. Zur Behandlung des Helenamythos im Werk des Dichters aus Himera (Leipziger Studien zur klassischen Philologie 9; Tübingen 2012), in: BMCR 2013–03–09.

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Finglass, P. J. (2013b), “Demophon in Egypt”, in: ZPE 184, 37–50. Finglass, P. J. (2013c), “How Stesichorus began his Sack of Troy”, in: ZPE 185, 1–17. Finglass, P. J. (2014), “Stesichorus and the west”, in: Breglia / Moleti (2014), 29–34. Finglass, P. J. (2015a), “Iliou Persis”, in: Fantuzzi / Tsagalis (2015), 344–54. Finglass, P. J. (2015b), “Stesichorus, master of narrative”, in Finglass / Kelly (2015), 83–97. Finglass, P. J. (2018), “Stesichorus and Greek tragedy”, in Andújar et al. (2018). Finglass, P. J. / Kelly, A. (2015) (eds.), Stesichorus in Context, Cambridge. Finkelberg, M. (2011) (ed.), The Homer Encyclopedia, 3 vols., Malden, MA / Oxford / Chichester. Forsdyke, S. (2008), “Street theatre and popular justice in ancient Greece: shaming, stoning and starving offenders inside and outside the courts”, in: P&P 201, 3–50. Führer, R. (1971), “Nachträge zu P. Oxy. 2803 (Stesichoros)”, in: ZPE 8, 251–4. Führer, R. (1977), Review of SLG, in: GGA 229, 1–44. Griffin, J. (2011), “Helen”, in: Finkelberg (2001), ii 335–7. Kahil, L. (1988), “Helene”, in: LIMC iv/1, 498–563. Kelly, A. (2015), “Stesichorus’ Homer”, in: Finglass / Kelly (2015), 21–44. Lefkowitz, M. R. (2012), The Lives of the Greek Poets2, London. Lobel, E. (1967), “2617. Stesichorus, Γηρυονηΐϲ?, and other pieces?”, in: The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 32, 1–29. Loraux, N. (1985), Façons tragiques de tuer une femme, Paris. Loraux, N. (1987), Tragic Ways of Killing a Woman, transl. A. Forster, Cambridge, MA and London. Mossman, J. M. (1995), Wild Justice. A Study of Euripides’ Hecuba, Oxford. Roisman, H. (2006), “Helen in the Iliad; causa belli and victim of war: from silent weaver to public speaker’, in: AJP 127, 1–36. Russell, D. A. (2001), Quintilian. The Orator’s Education, 5 vols., Cambridge, MA / London. Schade, G. (2015), “Stesichorus’ readers. From Pierre de Ronsard to Anne Carson”, in Finglass / Kelly (2015), 164–85. Slings, S. R. (1994), Review of D. A. Campbell (ed., transl.), Greek Lyric III. Stesichorus, Ibycus, Simonides, and others (Cambridge, MA / London 1991), in: Mnemosyne 4th ser. 47, 104–9. Swift, L. (2015), “Stesichorus on stage”, in Finglass / Kelly (eds.) (2015), 125–44. West, M. L. (2013), The Epic Cycle. A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics, Oxford.

Emmanuela Bakola

Seeing the invisible: Interior Spaces and Uncanny Erinyes in Aeschylus’ Oresteia Interior spaces, “seen” and “unseen” in Greek tragedy It hardly needs to be stated that the visible and the invisible lay at the very heart of fifth-century Greek theatre. Greek theatre took place in the open, in the bright light of day, with the sun illuminating the natural spaces that hosted the event. This is a striking contrast with tragedy’s common themes of the dark sides of human nature, the suppressed memories of terrible deeds, the unexpressed desires hidden in the recesses of the human psyche, and the darkness of death and Hades; this contrast between the “seen” and the “unseen” may be one of the genre’s most paradoxical features. Flooded by the brilliant natural light of Greece, how did the theatrical event represent physically the hidden, the suppressed, the unconscious, the “unseen”? Several decades ago, studies informed by structural anthropology showed that the way Greek tragedy used theatrical space was crucial for its representation of the “unseen”. They demonstrated in particular that the fundamental contrasts of light and dark, known and unknown, public and private, seen and unseen, centred around the extraordinarily multivalent space within the stage building (the skene) and its contrast with the exterior.1 In the theatre, interior spaces do not only function as representations of buildings such as houses, palaces and temples, nor as spaces that can be “realistically” entered and exited by characters, like tents and groves. They also function as symbolic interiors capturing “deep” spaces like the mind, the memory, the psyche and bodily innards like the mouth and the womb.2

1 Dale 1969, Segal 1982, chs. 4–8, Padel 1983, Zeitlin 1985, 74–79, Padel 1990, passim, esp. 342–46, Lefebvre 1991, 224–26, Padel 1992, Wiles 1997, ch. 7. 2 Cf. Lefebvre 1991, 224–26, Padel 1992, 337, 349, 354, 364, Wiles 1997, 66, Zeitlin 1985, 74–79. Note: This paper is the result of concurrent research on two parallel projects, on gaze and vision in Greek literature and on conceptualisations of the daimonic in relation to space from the archaic to the Christian times. It has also been published, in a slightly amplified version, in the volume Locating the Daimonic in the Greek World, eds. Bakola, E. and Lunn-Rockliffe, S., which has a different scope. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-009

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In almost every Greek tragedy, especially those in which there is focus on a family’s past, including its dark secrets, the succession of generations, and dead ancestors, these notions tend to gravitate towards the interior. It is suggestive that interior spaces in Greek theatre are often described as “dark” and “deep”, with the terms mychos and thalamos (“inner chamber”, “room in the deepest part of the house”) used frequently for the stage building as a whole.3 Interior spaces are often connected with depth, confinement, repression and oppression; we may thus understand the connection of interiority with what is forgotten or in distant memory, pushed away from consciousness, suppressed, unconscious, and in the past. We may also understand its connection with things that are perceived as dangerous and that need to be contained, such as the female. For example, in the opening scene of Euripides’ Medea, the excruciated and potentially threatening female psyche is captured through the unseen heroine’s screams from inside the house (E. Med. 96–212). In Sophocles’ Trachiniae it is captured through the imaginary secret location of Deianeira’s potion, which had been pushed into the depths of memory in the house’s mychos (S. Trach. 555–81; 686–90).4 However, the dramatic impact of interior spaces lies in the fact that they do not only hide such things as past events and repressed thoughts and secrets, but they also allow them sometimes to creep out, to emerge, to become visible. One of the most dramaturgically effective ways that Greek theatre reveals the hidden into view is through the vivid descriptions and enacted performances of messenger speeches. Through their vivid narrations, messenger speeches “act out” horrific events that are otherwise hidden from audience view, having usually taken place in the interior.5 Although these speeches’ vividness (enargeia) is not quite the same as literally making events visible, such scenes are often combined with the use of the ekkyklema, the theatrical platform that was wheeled out of the interior to reveal scenes of murders, madness or other sights of unimaginable terror.6 The ekkyklema is thus associated with moments of intense dramatic impact, as something that is supposed to remain hidden and invisible

3 In the Oresteia alone, mychos: Ag. 96, Cho. 35, 446, 801, 954, Eum. 39, 170, 180; thalamos: Eum. 1004; Elsewhere in Greek tragedy, mychos: A. Pers. 624, S. Trach. 686, S. Ant. 1293, E. Med. 397, E. Hel. 820, E. Hec. 1040, E. Ion 229, E. Tr. 299; thalamos: S. Ant. 804, S. El. 190, E. Med. 141, E. Andr. 787, E. El. 132, E. Supp. 1022, E. Ph. 1541, E. Ba. 1370. 4 See especially Padel 1983, Zeitlin 1985, and more generally, Scolnicov 1994. The deep interior may capture human interiors regardless of gender: for Pentheus and the interior of the skene in the Bacchae, see Segal 1982, 86–87. For Orestes in the Oresteia, see below, pp. 174–76. 5 For example, S. Ant. 1278–316, OT 1223–96, OC 1579–669, Trach. 899–946, Eur. Or. 1369–502, Her. 909–1015, Bacch. 604–41, Alc. 141–98. 6 A. Ag. 1372, Cho. 972, Eum. 64; S. Aj. 344, El. 1465, Ant. 1293; Eur. Her. 1028, Hipp. 811.

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becomes momentarily visible.7 As theatrical property, therefore, it seems to have been a highly sophisticated medium which further attests the fascination of Greek theatre with the meaning and workings of interiority. Furthermore, interiors often capture the space of the unseen par excellence, Hades. Characters like Agamemnon, Cassandra, Ajax, and Oedipus depart ominously into the skene never to be seen alive again;8 in these scenes an attempt is made to capture symbolically this transition into another world, the world of Aides, which was sometimes etymologically explained as coming from a- and idein.9 In these and other cases, the skene is often explicitly called “house of Hades”. Like the entries of such characters into the world of the dead (and the unseen), the emergence from the world of the dead is also characterised by means of that which straddles the visible and the invisible: for example, in Aeschylus’ Persians, Darius’ ascension from his tomb is represented as a temporary apparition of a phantom, or eidolon.10 Furthermore, Euripides’ Hecuba and Aeschylus’ Eumenides show that dream-eidola, entities who emerge from the depths of the earth (and enter our vision through the skene interior), exist on the border between the seen and the unseen.11 In the whole of the Oresteia, the interior functions symbolically as much as it functions representationally. The dramaturgical use of the skene helps the oppositions of the seen and the unseen, the known and the repressed, the conscious and the unconscious, to be played out. In particular, the skene captures – almost as their physical surrogate – an array of concepts

7 The ekkyklema is sometimes regarded as clumsy and primitive machinery and is understood merely as a solution for a practical problem, namely the difficulty of how an outdoor theatre should show scenes that are supposed to have taken place inside. However, a closer exploration of this convention reassures us that the ekkyklema does not merely reveal what is hard to see in practical terms, but more accurately, it makes the invisible and the unknown visible and known. It brings these categories of existence to our consciousness. The best analyses of the symbolic function of the ekkyklema have been made by experts on Greek theatre space, especially Padel 1990, 360–63. See also Dale 1969, 120–29, Wiles 1997, 162–65. 8 Agamemnon in the “tapestry scene” (Ag. 908–75), Cassandra in the Agamemnon (Ag. 1291), Ajax after his suicide speech S. Aj. 864–65 and Oedipus in Oedipus at Colonus (S. OC 1555; cf. 1590–1). See Wiles 1997, 165–66, Padel 1992, 98–100, Markantonatos 2002, 110. 9 Aides, a-idein: see Jucquois and Devlamminck 1977, 20 and Burkert 1985, 426. 10 For Darius, see Bakola 2014 passim. 11 Bakola 2014, 29–33, on the appearance of the dream-eidola of Clytemnestra and Polydorus through the interior. In Greek tragedy, dreams are generally figured as being sent from the earth: cf. Pers. 219–23 with Garvie 2009 ad loc.; Ch. 43–46 with Garvie 1986: 54 and 59. For the notion of eidolon in Greek imagination and its connection with dreams, souls and other entities of the underworld, see Vernant 1991, 186–88.

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that encapsulate that which remains mostly obscure and unseen, but which causes relentless foreboding: namely the family’s past, its repressed secrets, its psyche, and the pathological, destructive and self-destructive drive of its members, especially through their obsession with wealth and power. Furthermore, the interior becomes connected to the dark space of Hades and the depths of the Delphic earth that sends forth oracular knowledge, and even, in the third play, the world of dreams.12

Enter the Erinyes – at the end of the Oresteia? In the Oresteia, the past, the secrets, the psychopathology of the house, the threatening realm of death and of brooding ancestors come together not just in this space, but also in the image of a certain presence which, both as a singular and as a plural entity,13 is permanently rooted in the interior: namely the Erinys or Erinyes of the oikos (house).14 However, although the Erinyes are invoked and mentioned from the very beginning of the Agamemnon (Ag. 54), they do not have a physical presence for a very long time. Scholars unanimously believe that the Erinyes remain invisible for the audience for the majority of the trilogy, namely for over 2800 lines of text; furthermore, that when they first become visible, this is not to the audience but only to characters who are in a fit of madness.15 The first of these is Cassandra, who, before entering the house to join Agamemnon in his death, talks about what she sees in the interior: τὴν γὰρ στέγην τήνδ᾿ οὔποτ᾿ ἐκλείπει χορὸς ξύμφθογγος, οὐκ εὔφωνος· οὐ γὰρ εὖ λέγει. καὶ μὴν πεπωκώς γ᾿, ὡς θρασύνεσθαι πλέον,

12 For the symbolic significance of the interior and its dark depths in the Oresteia, see Padel 1992, 73–75, 91–95, 105–8, and 168–92. 13 For the Erinyes as both singular and plural entities, see Henrichs 1994, 52, Padel 1992, 165, Easterling 2008, 224 n. 21. 14 For the Erinyes as interior powers, see Ag. 155, 717–72, 1186–93 (with Fraenkel ad loc.), 1500–3; Cho. 566, 698–99, 800–2. The Erinyes are primarily powers of the earth (Eum. 417), which is also conceptualised as interior space. The only scholar who has emphasized the element of interiority in relation to the Erinyes is Padel 1992, 171–72 and 189–92. For the Erinyes and the house, see Rose 1992, 219–21, Bacon 2001, 50–51. For a recent discussion of the multivalent functions of the Erinyes in Greek culture, Sewell-Rutter 2007, ch. 4. 15 For this view, see especially Brown 1983. More recently, Padel 1992, 185; Easterling 2008, 222–25; Mitchell-Boyask 2009, 47–48.

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βρότειον αἷμα κῶμος ἐν δόμοις μένει, δύσπεμπτος ἔξω, συγγόνων Ἐρινύων· ὑμνοῦσι δ᾿ ὕμνον δώμασιν προσήμεναι πρώταρχον ἄτην … (Ag. 1186–92) There is a group of singers that never leaves this house. They sing in unison, but not pleasantly, for their words speak of evil. Moreover, this revel-band drinks human blood, thus emboldening itself, and then remains in the house, hard to send away – the band of the house’s kindred Erinyes. Besetting the chambers of the house, they sing a song of the ruinous folly that first began it all … (transl. Sommerstein 2008, adapted)16

Orestes is thought to be the second character who “sees” the Erinyes, in the final scene of the Choephori. Having killed his mother inside the house, he then undergoes a fit of madness and “sees” them approaching him: ἆ, ἆ· σμοιαὶ γυναῖκες, αἵδε Γοργόνων δίκην φαϊοχίτωνες καὶ πεπλεκτανημέναι πυκνοῖς δράκουσιν· οὐκέτ᾽ ἂν μείναιμ᾽ ἐγώ. (Cho. 1048–50) Ah, ah! I see these hideous women looking like Gorgons – clad in dark-grey tunics and thickly wreathed with serpents! I can’t stay here!

Scholars usually point out that it is only at Eumenides 63 (or 140)17 that the Erinyes become visible to the audience, when they emerge from the interior of the Delphic oracle on the ekkyklema and then become a fully-fledged chorus. As we will see, the way the Erinyes manifest their presence and, as a result, their role in the trilogy, is much more complex than has been realised. The key here is that the Erinyes are daimones and are therefore understood to have a liminal existence between the visible and the invisible.18 In the theatre, this liminal existence is not confined to the level of words, but is translated into how the Erinyes are staged. In this paper, I will show that, through complex engagements with the visible and the invisible in relation to the interior of the skene, and by positioning bodies, props and machinery in highly suggestive ways, Aeschylean dramaturgy makes the viewer “see” the Erinyes much more frequently than has been thought until now. Aeschylus thus confirms the Erinyes’ near-ubiquitous role by choosing key points of the trilogy to make them 16 The edition and translation of the Aeschylean texts is Sommerstein 2008, unless otherwise indicated. 17 For a survey of possible staging approaches, see Mitchell-Boyask 2009, 45–55. 18 See Dodds 1951, 39–43; cf. 10–15 and nn. 65–66; Burkert 1985, 180–81. For the Erinyes as daimones, see Padel 1992, ch. 8 and 93–94, 129–32, 137–38, 141–42, 150–52. See also Padel 1983. For daimones in Greek tragedy and in Aeschylus especially, see also Winnington-Ingram 1983, ch. 1 and 80, 112–13, 160–61, 207–8, Burkert 1985, 180–81, Vernant and Vidal-Naquet 1990, 36– 37, 45, 76–78, 81, 122.

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“appear”. Furthermore, sightings of the Erinyes start hundreds of lines before the Cassandra scene and continue until the figures appear unambiguously as the chorus of the third play, at Eum. 140. Their appearances to the viewer, which are confirmed mostly retrospectively as the trilogy unfolds and as patterns of behaviour and action are repeated and reasserted, are always connected with the skene interior.

Two uncanny apparitions: the servants of the house (dmoiai) in the Agamemnon’s “tapestry scene” and in the opening of the Choephori. The first scene in which I wish to show a significant apparition of the Erinyes is the so-called “tapestry-scene” of the Agamemnon (Ag. 782–974), which scholars rightly see as having a pivotal role in the trilogy. At Ag. 782, Agamemnon returns to his house victorious from the utterly destructive and deadly Trojan expedition. When he prepares to descend from his chariot to enter the house, his wife Clytemnestra asks him not to tread on the ground, but to enter by trampling, and symbolically destroying, the expensive and intricately woven royal purple fabrics spread in front of him (Ag. 905–13). As Clytemnestra lures him onto the fabrics (Ag. 958–74), a strong sense of danger and transgression prepares us for what will follow: Agamemnon will enter the house and will not emerge from it alive. These fabrics are very important for understanding how the “unseen” Erinyes reveal themselves in the “tapestry scene”. It is, first of all, essential to keep in mind that in the trilogy the fabrics are said to belong to the Erinyes: ἰδὼν ὑφαντοῖς ἐν πέπλοις Ἐρινύων τὸν ἄνδρα τόνδε κείμενον φίλως ἐμοί (Ag. 1580–81) I see this man lying here in the woven robes of the Erinyes, a sight precious to me …

Why are the fabrics said to belong to the Erinyes and not Clytemnestra? My suggestion is that the play has already shown us a flash of the Erinyes handling these deadly, net-like fabrics before Agamemnon was lured and trapped by them in the tapestry scene. Let us “rewind” and look for a suggestive action just before Agamemnon sets his foot on the fabrics. This action has received almost no attention by commentators as it is not accompanied by words; we only know of it because it is prompted by this speech of Clytemnestra: δμῳαί, τί μέλλεθ᾿, αἷς ἐπέσταλται τέλος πέδον κελεύθου στορνύναι πετάσμασιν;

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εὐθὺς γενέσθω πορφυρόστρωτος πόρος, εἰς δῶμ᾿ ἄελπτον ὡς ἂν ἡγῆται Δίκη. (Ag. 908–11) Servants of the house (dmoiai), why are you waiting, when you have been assigned the duty of spreading fine fabrics over the ground in his path? Let his way forthwith be spread with crimson, so that Justice may lead him into a home he never hoped to see. (transl. Sommerstein 2008, adapted)

The theatrical power of the scene that these words prompt is immense. The servants of the house (dmoiai) exit the house interior and spread the fabrics at Agamemnon’s feet in a scene that must have lasted for only a few ominous seconds of purely visual action. Then, silently, after Agamemnon has trampled on them, these women fold the fabrics behind him and follow Clytemnestra, disappearing with Agamemnon and the fabrics into the dark depths of the house.19 Figure 1, a drawing of a still from the National Theatre Oresteia’s “tapestry scene”, might help the reader envisage the moment of the servants’ entrance from the house interior as they spread the fabric:

Fig. 7.1: Drawing of a still from the National Theatre Oresteia’s “tapestry scene”, directed by P. Hall (1981–83), filmed by Channel 4. Image credit: Rosa Wicks.

19 For the scene, see Taplin 1977, 308–9. Unlike most modern productions, Hall and Harrison’s NT Oresteia, influenced by Taplin, allowed adequate time for this important stage action.

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It is important to remember that no action in the theatre is without dramatic significance, and we are surely entitled to read more into this theatrical action than the mere movement of props by stagehands. Knowing that Agamemnon died “ὑφαντοῖς ἐν πέπλοις Ἐρινύων”, i.e. “in the woven robes of the Erinyes”, it is difficult to resist suspecting that these women bear a more ominous significance: are these dmoiai something more than mere women who serve the house? More specifically, could this be an apparition of the house’s ominous presences that some characters talk about? This suspicion will be strengthened later on, as we will be alerted again and again to the presence of Erinyes in the oikos, for example by Cassandra in the scene mentioned earlier, where she describes them as a “revel-band” that “drinks human blood, thus emboldening itself, and then remains in the house, hard to send away” (Ag. 1186–90). For all that the chorus (and the spectators) are urged by the prophetess, they cannot see what Cassandra describes so vividly. Yet, this band of women does not remain completely invisible for very long. This second apparition is flashed before our eyes at the beginning of the second play, the Choephori, where the dmoiai have become a fully-fledged chorus (Cho. 23). When Orestes sees these women emerging from the interior and does not know who they are, he describes them in the following way: τί χρῆμα λεύσσω; τίς ποθ᾿ ἥδ᾿ ὁμήγυρις στείχει γυναικῶν φάρεσιν μελαγχίμοις πρέπουσα; (Cho. 10–12) what is this I see? What may this gathering of women be that comes here, so striking in their black garments?

Soon afterwards, this is how the women describe themselves: ἰαλτὸς ἐκ δόμων ἔβαν χοὰς προπομπὸς ὀξύχειρι σὺν κόπῳ· πρέπει παρῂς φοίνισσ᾿ ἀμυγμοῖς ὄνυχος ἄλοκι νεοτόμῳ … λινοφθόροι δ᾿ ὑφασμάτων λακίδες ἔφλαδον ὑπ᾿ ἄλγεσιν, πρόστερνοι στολμοὶ πέπλων ἀγελάστοις ξυμφοραῖς πεπληγμένοι. (Cho. 23–31) I have come from the house, having been sent to escort the drink-offerings with rapid beating of hands; my cheek stands out red with gashes, with furrows freshly cut by my nails …; the tearing sound of garments rent in grief has ruined their linen weave – the folds of my robes over my breast, savaged by mirthless disaster.

The play makes it clear that they are the dmoiai of the house, whom Clytemnestra had called outside to spread the fabrics earlier on:

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δμῳαί γυναῖκες, δωμάτων εὐθήμονες … (Cho. 84) Servant women, who keep the house in good order ….

What is striking this time is that the women’s appearance is highly ominous and, in fact, highly suggestive of the Erinyes. Black-clad, with gashes on their cheeks, and torn, destroyed fabrics, they come across as no less jarring than the daimones of the final play (cf. Eum. 52, 55, 352, 370; cf. Ag. 463). Indeed, as we will see later, this appearance will be perfectly complemented by their characterisation. As many commentators have noted, the chorus of the Choephori is one of the most aggressive and forceful choruses in Greek drama; some commentators have even suggested that they are meant to remind us of the Erinyes through their angry incitements to avenge Agamemnon.20 Their black robes certainly constitute a striking visual link with the chorus of the third play.21 We can take these observations much further if we notice that this link is shown not only through the chorus’ characterisation and costume, but – and perhaps even more so – through their positioning in space and through the tableau that this positioning constructs, especially in relation to the house interior. The confirmation that, in fact, we have another apparition of the Erinyes before our eyes in these women, the dmoiai of the house of Atreus, comes in the finale of the second play. As we will realise retrospectively, like the brief appearance of the women with the fabrics from the interior in the “tapestry scene”, this entry from the house interior is another instance of the Oresteia’s masterful engagement with the Erinyes’ straddling – as daimones – the realm of the visible and the invisible.

One more apparition: the dmoiai in the finale of the Choephori After Orestes’ murder of his mother inside the palace (Cho. 928–30) comes one of the most striking mirror-scenes of Greek drama.22 Standing over the bodies of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, Orestes is wheeled out on the ekkyklema in a tableau which strongly evokes the final scene of the Agamemnon.23 The crime of Orestes is unambiguously shown as mirroring his mother’s and thus contin20 McCall 1990, 27, Bacon 2001, 52–53, Frontisi-Ducroux 2006, 34. 21 Cf. Sider 1978, 18–19 and 21–22. 22 Mirror-scenes evoke other, usually highly important, scenes through their similarities and differences. For their importance in Greek drama, see Taplin 20032, ch. 8. 23 Sommerstein 20102, 23 and 157–59.

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uing the vicious cycle that has plagued the Atreid oikos for generations. Then the fabrics are brought into focus. Orestes hands them to the chorus and says: ἴδεσθε δ᾽ αὖτε, τῶνδ᾽ ἐπήκοοι κακῶν, τὸ μηχάνημα, δεσμὸν ἀθλίῳ πατρί, πέδας τε χειροῖν καὶ ποδοῖν ξυνωρίδα. ἐκτείνατ᾽ αὐτὸ καὶ κύκλῳ παρασταδὸν24 στέγαστρον ἀνδρὸς δείξαθ᾽, ὡς ἴδῃ πατήρ … (Cho. 980–84) Behold also, you who are hearing of these crimes, the contrivance that imprisoned my wretched father, that fettered his arms and bound his feet together. Spread it out and standing around in a circle, display the fabric which covered the man, in order that the Father may see it. (trans. Sommerstein 2008, adapted)

This passage has been heavily debated. Some scholars have posited the existence of female attendants who handle and spread the fabric. Even more scholars have argued that the fabric is just spread in front of Orestes and only surrounded by the women.25 However, there is a more economical interpretation of the text, which does far more justice to the scene’s dramaturgical meaning. First of all, we have no indication that any attendants exist.26 A simpler interpretation is that Orestes does not ask attendants, but the chorus, the servants of the house (the dmoiai), to display the fabric which has just appeared with the bodies from the interior. Furthermore, Cho. 983, ἐκτείνατ᾽ αὐτὸ καὶ κύκλῳ παρασταδόν, suggests a circular formation of the women during the demonstration of the fabric. Again, the most economical interpretation suggests that Orestes asks the women to hold the fabric while standing around him in a circle.27 Figure 7.2 offers a reconstruction of what these movements would look like in performance.28 The visual symbolism is powerful: the fabric “traps” Orestes, as it had trapped his father in the first play (cf. Cho. 1001–15). The women who hold it are the same dmoiai who in the first play had followed Agamemnon into the interior, and who then staged a sighting of the Erinyes at the beginning of the Choephori. Orestes, we are led to assume, is himself “caught” “in the 24 West and Sommerstein tentatively print 983a < ἀμήχανον τέχνημα καὶ δυσέκδυτον >, ‘the garment to cover a man which he could not strip off’ (= Aesch. fr. 375 TrGF (Σ Euripides Orestes 25)), but there is no conclusive evidence for doing so. 25 For these propositions, see e.g. Garvie 1986, 321; Sommerstein 2008, 337–38. 26 Rightly so, Taplin 1977, 358. 27 Cf. Sider 1978, 26 and Tarkow 1980, 161. 28 The sketches of figures 1 and 2 assume the fifth-century theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens as their model. They assume that the skene-building front was around 20 m. long and the skene door opening around 6 m. wide. For these dimensions, see Goette 2007, 117, and Whallon 1995, 236 respectively. For the most recent archaeological survey of the theatre, which argues that the skene in the fifth century did not differ in size from the skene in the fourth century, see Papastamati-Von Moock 2015, esp. 68–69.

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Fig. 7.2: Sketch reconstruction of Choephori 980 ff. For the blood-red colour of the fabric, see Taplin 1977, 314–15. Image credit: Rosa Wicks.

woven robes of the Erinyes” (ὑφαντοῖς ἐν πέπλοις Ἐρινύων, Ag. 1580), who are evoked here by the black-clad dmoiai holding the red fabric around Orestes and glorying in Clytemnestra’s murder. It is then that Orestes sees the Erinyes, and his words alert us, the viewers, to another apparition of the Erinyes: ἆ, ἆ· σμοιαὶ γυναῖκες, αἵδε Γοργόνων δίκην φαϊοχίτωνες καὶ πεπλεκτανημέναι πυκνοῖς δράκουσιν· οὐκέτ᾽ ἂν μείναιμ᾽ ἐγώ. (Cho. 1048–50) Ah, ah! I see these hideous women looking like Gorgons – clad in dark-grey tunics and thickly wreathed with serpents! I can’t stay here!

Σμοιαί, “hideous”, is West’s emendation of l. 1048, and is accepted by the vast majority of editors. However, the original reading of the manuscripts is much more revealing about what is actually shown in this scene. Orestes does not say σμοιαὶ in the manuscripts (M), but δμῳαί. He sees the dmoiai, clad in black garments and with gashes on their faces standing around him in a circle, looking at him and holding the ominous fabric. He then protests that he sees the Erinyes. As it now emerges, it does not do justice to the scene’s dramaturgy to suppose that Orestes is simply hallucinating. By retrieving the original power of the appellation δμῳαί, we can see how Aeschylus is suggesting that these women constitute yet another sighting of the Erinyes, for both Orestes and for the audience. Once again, we cannot help but notice that this apparition of the Erinyes is strongly connected with the interior of the skene. For, as Orestes addresses the dmoiai, he stands over the corpses of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, whom

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he has just murdered inside the house; he is therefore understood as still being indoors, so the tableau is most likely represented on the ekkyklema29 with the chorus standing around it. This arrangement is crucial: if Orestes is part of an interior scene, so are the Erinyes. Both interior and circular, this spatial positioning has implications beyond conveying Orestes’ entrapment and the continuation of the house’s vicious cycle of crime; it also captures a deeper, psychological symbolism of the interior, as suggested when Orestes declares that his own interiors, mind and heart, have been overpowered by Terror and Wrath: … φέρουσι γὰρ νικώμενον φρένες δύσαρκτοι, πρὸς δὲ καρδίᾳ Φόβος ᾄδειν ἕτοιμος ἠδ’ ὑπορχεῖσθαι Κότῳ. (Cho. 1023–25) My mind is almost out of control and carrying me along half-overpowered, and Terror is near my heart, ready to sing and to dance to Wrath’s tune.

Orestes’ words about the singing and dancing of his internal organs resonate with what we as the audience see at this moment enacted on stage. The appearance of the dmoiai-Erinyes, themselves embodiments of Terror and Wrath, form a singing and dancing chorus around Orestes and become the spatial externalised representation of Orestes’ state of mind.30 In this striking tableau, human interiors, the house interiors and the cosmos/earth interiors that hide these powerful daimonic forces31 are merged into the single space of the polysemous, but perennially ominous, dark skene, here conveyed by the use of the ekkyklema. Mind, house and cosmos become one multivalent space: nested into one another, the interiors of the individual’s psyche, a family’s psyche and the psyche of the cosmos are inhabited and controlled by these daimonic powers. Representations of the interior, the Erinyes are flashes of vision in an otherwise obscure scheme.

The Erinyes mirrored: the “Binding Song” in the Eumenides. The chorus’ circular arrangement and Orestes’ claim that his interiors are ready to sing and dance the tune of Wrath in the finale of the Choephori acquire new 29 See Sommerstein 20102, 23 and 157–59. Contra Taplin 1977, 357. 30 For the interior of the skene as representing human interiors, see above, pp. 163–64. 31 For the Erinyes as agents and guardians of the earth, see below, pp. 178–80.

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Fig. 7.3: Sketch reconstruction of Eumenides 307 ff. Image credit: Rosa Wicks.

life in the Eumenides, in another mirror scene of the trilogy. This is the scene of the “Binding Song”, which takes place after the action has moved to Athens, at Eum. 307–96. Since Eum. 140, the Erinyes have formed the chorus proper and have emerged from the interior to hunt Orestes down. Having finally caught up with him, they clasp hands in order to perform their “Binding Song” in a circle around him: … ἄγε δὴ καὶ χορὸν ἅψωμεν (Eum. 307) Come now, let us also join our hands in dance …

As these words and the reconstruction in Figure 3 suggests, the Erinyes’ circular formation around Orestes constitutes a strong visual reference to the chorus’ formation in the last scene of the Choephori (Figure 2, p. 173). However, the reference to that scene and the link between the two choruses become even stronger if one considers the effect that the “Binding Song” is shown to have on Orestes. The song is one of terror and wrath; it overpowers Orestes and drives his mind into a frenzy (Eum. 321–96). Retrospectively, what we see enacted here is nothing less than a second enactment of Orestes’ words in the Choephori: “My mind is almost out of control and carrying me along half-overpowered, and Terror is near my heart, ready to sing and to dance to Wrath’s tune” (Cho. 1023–25). By considering the strong link between the two scenes and paying attention to both their visual and their aural properties, we can delve deeper into the Erinyes’ “invisible” nature, which, despite the appearance of the chorus, has not been completely suppressed. By comparing the two tableaux and trying to imagine what we hear, we are first of all alerted to a significant difference between them: although the Erinyes are now properly visible qua Erinyes (and not as mere “flashes” through other characters), it is their entrapment which has now become invisible. What traps Orestes in this scene is not the ominous fabric, the “woven robes of the Erinyes”, as in the previous two plays,

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nor the Erinyes’ holding of hands. It is a spell, a song – in other words, invisible sound, a mode of communication that does not rely on visual means.32 In the Greek imagination, sound is connected with breath and wind, phenomena through which the Erinyes manifest themselves in Aeschylus.33 The dramaturgical ingenuity with which Aeschylus has connected fabric, singing, curse and breath/wind through the seen and the unseen is striking. We constantly find ourselves on the border between the two categories of the seen and the unseen, a border which captures the essence of the Oresteia’s Erinyes. There is one more significant element in the scene that confirms that we are correct to assume that the Erinyes’ liminal existence between the seen and the unseen has not been forgotten, even after the Erinyes have become a chorus: the fact that once again, we are in an interior space, the interior of Athena’s temple. This is clearly suggested by Orestes’ words at Eum. 242: … πρόσειμι δῶμα καὶ βρέτας τὸ σόν, θεά I have arrived at your house, goddess, and before your image …

Orestes’ words suggest that in this scene he is most likely on the ekkyklema, clasping Athena’s statue in the interior of the temple.34 Just as at the end of both the Agamemnon and the Choephori, we have here a character possessed by the Erinyes in an interior scene. The interior here captures both the conditions of Orestes’ psyche, as well as those of the cosmos that envelops him. In all cases, we are experiencing the operation of these forces in a liminal state between the unseen and the seen, a state where the audience is seeing things that should remain unseen.

32 For the staging of the “Binding song”, see Mitchell-Boyask 2009, 58–60. For the connection between fabrics and curse in the Oresteia, see McClure 1996/7. 33 On the connection between the Erinyes breaths and winds, see Sept. 705–8 and Thalmann 1978, 35, 37, 55. For daimones and winds, see Bakola, Smith, Piano and Timotin in the forthcoming volume Locating the daimonic in the Greek world (above, introductory footnote). For winds and breaths in Greek tragedy and Aeschylus in particular, see Padel 1992, 88–98. The image from Sept. 705–8 (and doubtlessly the connection to the Erinys) is re-used in the famous passage of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice at Ag. 218–27, where Agamemnon succumbs to the force that strikes his mind. Once again, this force is imagined in the form of the powerful wind tropaia (cf. 187). See also Ag. 645–57, 1235–36, Cho. 33, 1065–67, Eum. 52–53, 137–38, 840. Cf. S. Ant. 929–30. 34 Cf. Sommerstein 20082, 23 and 157–59.

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Back to the “tapestry scene”: the oikonomos-daimon of the house. Thus far, in the analyses of the dmoiai as uncanny apparitions of the Erinyes, we have noted the strong connection of these daimones with the interior. We have also seen that this connection is largely due to their representation as servants of the house, servants who keep the house in good order, “dmoiai”. If we dig a little deeper into this connection, it becomes evident that the strong connection of the Erinyes with the house as its dmoiai provides the key to us realising one more apparition. This time, the apparition shows them as a singular entity through a major character, namely Clytemnestra. The scene in question is once again the Agamemnon’s “tapestry scene”. As is now generally recognised, the intricate fabrics that are gratuitously ruined in this scene represent the wealth of the household, including its most precious wealth, the life and lifeblood of its members which are self-destructively shed by other members, especially the blood of Iphigeneia which was shed by her own father, Agamemnon.35 What we see in the “tapestry scene” is the woman of the house enticing its master into the destruction of some of its most precious wealth. However, if we think of Clytemnestra in the natural-realist terms of the “woman of the house” alone, there are significant difficulties with the logic of her actions. If in particular we consider the connection of the dark red fabrics with the shed blood of Iphigeneia, Clytemnestra’s invitation to Agamemnon to destroy the fabrics does not make sense. Why does she lure Agamemnon into (re-)enacting the destruction of the house’s most precious wealth, the lifeblood of her child? It is possible, of course, that in this scene the play operates on an entirely symbolic level, so that any realistic logic about Clytemnestra’s motives and actions might be temporarily suspended. However, this explanation would miss something crucial about the characterisation of this figure. The play has prepared us for this moment over eight hundred lines earlier. In the parodos of the Agamemnon, the chorus had sung the following lines: μίμνει γὰρ φοβερὰ παλίνορτος οἰκονόμος δολία, μνάμων Μῆνις τεκνόποινος. (Ag. 154–55) for there awaits, to arise hereafter, a fearsome, guileful oikonomos, a Wrath that remembers and will avenge a child. (trans. Sommerstein 2008, adapted)

35 Jones 1962, 82–93, Lebeck 1971, 85, Taplin 1977, 313–14, Goldhill 1986, 11, 69, 171, Scodel 1996, 120.

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Although on a first level it is obviously Clytemnestra who is being referred to in this passage, since she is the one who remembers and avenges her child Iphigeneia by killing Agamemnon, this passage does not name Clytemnestra explicitly. Instead, it uses a more ambiguous way to describe this female entity of the house, namely the term oikonomos. Why? The reason, I suggest, is that this passage merges more than one character into a single figure. As Fraenkel observed, by virtue of the name Μῆνις (= Fury) and the fact that this female figure was said “to rise up once again” from the depths (παλίνορτος), this passage makes a clear reference to the Erinys.36 It is, therefore, as early as Agamemnon 154–55 that the connection between the Erinys and the woman who broods in the house has been made. We may add that the characterisation oikonomos is as suggestive of the Erinys as it is of Clytemnestra, albeit on a different level. Decades ago, Vernant, Segal, and Padel showed that the house interior in Greek imagination has a cosmic and chthonic symbolism, in other words it symbolically captures the cosmos and the earth.37 This symbolism is crucial for understanding the characterisation of oikonomos as referring to the Erinys. The Erinys can be understood to be in charge of the wealth of an oikos as much as Clytemnestra can, but in her case the oikos is a much broader entity: it is the cosmic oikos, the earth. As chthonic powers, the Erinyes are understood to be guardians of all natural wealth, because all natural wealth, including human lifeblood and life itself, is understood to come from the earth.38 The proper use of the wealth of the earth is fundamental for the maintenance of the natural order. The Erinyes are understood to be in charge of this natural order by observing the proper use of its wealth and reacting to its violations. This realisation helps us to understand why the female figure of the “tapestry scene” evokes not only Clytemnestra, but also the Erinys. It also helps us understand why this figure provokes the destruction of the wealth of the oikos. Beyond the realistic level on which we “see” Clytemnestra luring Agamemnon into the house in order to kill him for the sacrifice of her precious child, on a more symbolic level we also “see” the Erinys persuading the destructive and

36 Fraenkel 1950, 92–94. 37 Vernant 1983, 127–75, Segal 19992, 42–47, 122, Padel 1992, ch. 5, cf. Bourdieu 1970 and 1990 (with revised structuralist principles). The oikos is used as a metonymy of (cosmic) order or its disruption in many plays. See especially Sophocles’ Trachiniae and Antigone, but also Euripides’ Heracles 888 ff. and Bacchae 587 ff. For a wide cross-cultural survey of the symbolism of vernacular architecture from America, Asia and Africa, see Oliver 1987, 153–70. The house is often connected to nature and the universe through another microcosmic model, the human body. 38 For the concept of the chthonic powers as guardians of the earth and its resources, see Burkert 1985, 200. Cf. Parker 2005, 423–24.

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wasteful members of the Atreid oikos to enact terrible destruction of the most precious wealth, in order to entrap and punish them. That we “see” the Erinys through the figure of Clytemnestra is nowhere else more manifest than in the central words of the “tapestry scene”, which are used to entice Agamemnon to his wasteful destruction by evoking the alleged inexhaustibility of the natural productive powers: ἔστιν θάλασσα – τίς δέ νιν κατασβέσει; – τρέφουσα πολλῆς πορφύρας ἰσάργυρον κηκῖδα παγκαίνιστον, εἱμάτων βαφάς· οἶκος39 δ’ ὑπάρχει τῶνδε σὺν θεοῖς, ἄναξ, ἔχειν· πένεσθαι δ’ οὐκ ἐπίσταται δόμος. πολλῶν πατησμὸν δ᾽ εἱμάτων ἂν ηὐξάμην, δόμοισι προυνεχθέντος ἐν χρηστηρίοις, ψυχῆς κόμιστρα τῆσδε μηχανωμένη. (Ag. 958–65) The sea is there – and who shall quench it? – nurturing the juices which yield much purple worth its weight in silver, wholly renewable, the dye of vestments. The oikos has an abundance of these with the gods’ help, my lord, for us to possess. This house does not know how to be poor. To contrive a means of bringing this life back, I would have vowed to trample many garments, if that had been prescribed by an oracle. (trans. Collard 2003, adapted)

Unless we recognise the Erinys, guardian of the earth’s wealth and force of the natural order, looming behind the presence of the queen and the double authority of the voice here, we cannot fully understand these words. Through the mouth of Clytemnestra, the Erinys says that the Atreid domos (house) has subjected the larger oikos, the earth, the natural world and its productive powers,40 to its own destruction and waste. The earlier choral descriptions of Iphigeneia’s murder and the Trojan war, both wasteful of the most precious form of wealth, human life, come promptly to mind.41 Almost paradoxically (but in 39 οἶκος f., printed by Page OCT: ἄκος West and Sommerstein. 40 For the passage’s evocation of the generative powers of not only sea but also land, see Goheen 1955, 121 and n. 17, Segal 1963, 34. This holistic understanding of “earth”, and the attribution of generative powers to these elements (which also appear as ominous and destructive) is attested in the closing scene of the Oresteia, Eum. 903–13. Purves 2010, 101–6 and Schibli 1990, 53–56, have also argued that the idea of “earth” may include land, sea and heavens. For insights into the modern use of the term “earth” and its connotations of “fertile ground/soil” as well as “environment”, see Cosgrove 2001, 5–8, esp. 7. 41 The parodos (esp. Ag. 126–66, 206–49), as well as the first (Ag. 369–84, 433–55, 461–74) and the second choral odes (Ag. 688–736), invoke the human cost of the war. For the ideas of youth, natural growth and their abuse, see also Ag. 197–98, 659–60 (cf. Aesch. Pers. 59–60, 252, 511–12, 821–26, 922–27, 978, as well as Aesch. Sept. 16–20, Aesch. Supp. 659–66). For the commodification of life and the violation of the natural processes as a result of the war, see Ag. 207, 359, 438, 525–28, 709– 11. For the angry reaction of nature to the expedition, see Ag. 187–201, 555–74, 648–73.

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line with our understanding of how the Erinyes as guardians of the cosmic order operate), destruction and waste become the Erinys’ instruments in order to ensure punishment of these same crimes.42 The symbolic destruction of the web/net-like fabrics evokes the destruction of generative powers as an ultimate violation of the cosmic order and seals the fate of the Atreid oikos: Agamemnon, guilty of destruction of the most precious human and natural wealth, is trapped in the net-like fabrics of the Erinyes and is on his way to meet his death. In the interior, which captures, as we have seen, both earth and Hades, he is awaited by the Erinys-Clytemnestra.43

Clytemnestra as the daimon of the house at the revelation of the corpses. The interior and the looming presence of the Erinys gain awesome power once again in the final scene of the Agamemnon, in which the slaughtered king and Cassandra are wheeled out of the interior (Ag. 1372).44 The use of the ekkyklema means that this is an interior scene, but that it has been brought “out” for the viewer to see. Accordingly, what the viewer “sees” in the scene of the revelation of the corpses is not just Clytemnestra, but another revelation of the Erinys, the daimon of the house. The process of coming to see the Erinys in Clytemnestra is, once again, gradual. There are hints that her voice has a double register from the very beginning of the scene: standing over the corpses and pointing at the fabric, the murderous female describes herself as having remembered a crime for a long time and having finally exacted punishment from its perpetrator (Ag. 1374–83). These words unambiguously evoke the mnamon (“unforgetting”) and hysteropoinos (“late-avenging”) characterisations that are regularly attributed to the Erinys (Ag. 58, 155, 703, cf. Eum. 383, Pr. 516, and S. Aj. 1390). Furthermore, the disturbed natural imagery that she uses to express her joy at

42 In order to redress the disturbed balance, the natural order reacts so violently that it causes even more destruction; cf. Burian 2003, 5–6. Madness and the Erinyes work in the same way, they both cause crime and punish it, cf. Padel 1992, 177. 43 Earlier on, Clytemnestra’s request from Agamemnon not to set his foot on the ground (Ag. 906–7) symbolically evoked the pollution that he had inflicted on the earth due to the greed and destruction of the Trojan expedition (see n. 41). This is an action that also evokes the Erinys. 44 Most scholars accept that this scene was staged on the ekkyklema, the theatrical platform which is rolled outside. See the recent approach by Rehm 2002, 82–84.

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the splattering of Agamemnon’s blood (Ag. 1389–92) is more appropriate to a force of the natural order than a human. Our suspicions are confirmed at Ag. 1428, when the elders recognise the Erinys’ bloody eyes (cf. Eum. 54) as the eyes of the queen: λίβος ἐπ᾿ ὀμμάτων αἵματος εὖ πρέπει the flecks of blood show clearly on your eyes.

Eventually, the elders – and we with them – “see” the daimon of the house: δαῖμον, ὃς ἐμπίτνεις δώμασι καὶ διφυίοισι Τανταλίδαισιν, κράτος τ᾿ ἰσόψυχον ἐκ γυναικῶν καρδιόδηκτον ἐμοὶ κρατύνεις· ἐπὶ δὲ σώματος δίκαν κόρακος ἐχθροῦ σταθεὶς ἐκνόμως ὕμνον ὑμνεῖν ἐπεύχεται … (Ag. 1468–74) Daimon that assails this house and the two Tantalids so different in their nature, and controls it, in a way that rends my heart, through the agency of women whose sould were alike! Standing over the corpse, in the manner of a loathsome raven, it glories in tunelessly singing a song45 … (trans. Sommerstein 2008, slightly adapted)

As this scene reaches its climax, the image of the Erinys converges entirely with that of Clytemnestra; what the audience has sensed all along, that there was a symbiotic relationship between the “Erinys of the house” and Clytemnestra, is confirmed as true when we hear from her that it is not as Agamemnon’s wife, but as the “ancient, bitter avenging spirit” of the house, the daimon alastor,46 that she killed her husband: αὐχεῖς εἶναι τόδε τοὔργον ἐμόν; 〈μὴ 〉 μηδ᾿ ἐπιλεχθῇς Ἀγαμεμνονίαν εἶναί μ᾿ ἄλοχον·

45 Tuneless singing is a hallmark of the Erinyes, cf. e.g. Ag. 1186–93; Eum. 32–96 (the Binding Song). See also Wilson and Taplin 1993. 46 The gender should not be an obstacle for the identification of the house’s Erinys with the house’s daimon and alastor. For the identification of the Erinys with a male subject, see Finglass 2005, esp. 41, and for masculine characteristics of the Erinyes in general, Sommerstein 20102, 161, 181. Dodds 1951, 26, Fowler 1991, 95, Padel 1992, 118, and Ferrari 1997, 23 are certainly right to equate these daimonic powers of the house, in contrast to the common tendency to distinguish them from one another, e.g. Fraenkel 1950, 711, Sewell-Rutter 2007, 84, Raeburn and Thomas 2011, 225. From Ag. 1567, just before Aegisthus enters, Clytemnestra’s attitude changes and she treats the daimon as a force external to herself.

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φανταζόμενος δὲ γυναικὶ νεκροῦ τοῦδ᾿ ὁ παλαιὸς δριμὺς ἀλάστωρ Ἀτρέως χαλεποῦ θοινατῆρος τόνδ᾿ ἀπέτεισεν, τέλεον νεαροῖς ἐπιθύσας. (Ag. 1497–1504) You think this deed is mine? , nor reckon that I am the spouse of Agamemnon: no, the ancient, bitter avenging spirit of Atreus, the furnisher of the cruel banquet, has taken the likeness of this corpse’s wife and paid him out, adding a fullgrown sacrificial victim to the young ones.

Towards a re-interpretation of the Erinyes and the interior spaces of the Oresteia There are plenty more instances which show sightings of the “invisible” Erinyes, the way they become both “seen” and “unseen”, as connected to the interior.47 As we read on and explore the trilogy further, identifying even more apparitions of the Erinyes, we see many parts with new eyes, while at the same time facing unavoidable questions about the role and meaning of these daimonic entities. Going into an analysis of these scenes and their connections to one another would require a lot more space than this essay allows. However, as a case for these connections has been made, I will now try to give an interpretation of what we are to make of the Erinyes’ seen and unseen nature. What does it mean that they are essentially invisible and seen only in “flashes” or by characters in a state of madness? Moreover, what does it mean that when we see these apparitions of the Erinyes, they are always connected with the interior? A few fundamental observations should be made. First and foremost, these appearances of the Erinyes lend ever more support to the minority view that the Erinyes form the central axis of the Oresteia and represent a perennial preoccupation of the poet throughout the trilogy. This is a view which has been expressed by Ruth Padel and Helen Bacon, and considered by a handful of other scholars,48 but which rarely figures in mainstream interpretations of the

47 For example, the “Beacons speech” (Ag. 281–316) with its image of the approaching fire (which evokes an invisible hand), has rightly been argued to construct Clytemnestra like an avenging Erinys: see Ferrari 1997, 19–24. Furthermore, the house servant Cilissa, as Bacon 2001, 55 has shown, also evokes an Erinys. The full significance of these sightings will be shown in detail and at greater length in relation to the natural and the chthonic in my forthcoming monograph. 48 More recently, by Easterling 2008; see also Winnington-Ingram 1983, 154–74.

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Oresteia. The conclusion that the Erinyes have a central role in the Oresteia is strengthened by the realisation that the Erinyes are, almost always, “there”, if one is able to “see” them. Paying attention to the way theatrical space is used and to what we might “see” as viewers shows that the Erinyes are much more present than if we were to rely on the words of the play only. Furthermore, appreciating the ubiquity of the Erinyes paves the way for a much deeper understanding of why the Oresteia concludes by focusing on them, and not, for example, on the house of Atreus and the acquittal of Orestes. As to what it “means” that these sightings of the otherwise invisible Erinyes are connected to the interior, I would suggest, as Padel’s In and Out of the Mind powerfully argues, that the key factor is their daimonic nature; as cosmic and psychic forces, the Erinyes are fundamentally invisible, and the trilogy carefully plots this through its use of interior spaces.49 We are not meant to see the forces that operate in the cosmos. Such forces are captured in the Oresteia and Aeschylean tragedy more generally through invisible forces like winds (Ag. 218–23, Cho. 391–93, 1065–67, Sept. 705–8), or powers which operate from the earth, such as dream-eidola (Cho. 32–41, 523–25; Pers. 176– 99; Sept. 708–11, 720–33), or even through fleeting omens which come before the eyes of certain characters (Ag. 110–20; Pers. 353–60). Daimonic powers, and the Erinyes in particular, become present in and through such visitations. At the same time, it is through cosmic and earthly forces that they reveal their existence, and that they validate themselves. Similarly, we are not meant to see the forces that operate in the depths of the human psyche. As I suggested at the beginning of this chapter, interior spaces can represent the human psyche and its repressed and unconscious dimensions, the way that it is subject to forces that are not immediately clear to itself. The Erinyes capture both, and their appearances to us confirm that these forces are part of us as they are part of the cosmos. Both the human psyche and the cosmos are manifest to a great degree in the skene interior. What is left to us to do is to recognise that these forces exist, to peer into the dark mystery of the interior and await some momentary “flash” that will shed a little light on the nature of the ever-present Erinyes.

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49 This idea is central to Padel 1992.

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Markantonatos, A. (2002), Tragic Narrative: a Narratological Study of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus, Berlin. McCall, M. H. (1990), “The chorus of Aeschylus’ Choephori”, in: M. Griffith / D. Mastronarde (eds.), Cabinet of Muses: Essays in Honor of Thomas G. Rosenmeyer, Atlanta, 17–30. McClure, L. (1996/7), “Clytemnestra’s binding spell (Ag. 958–974)”, in: CJ 92, 123–140. Mitchell-Boyask, R. (2009), Aeschylus: Eumenides, London. Oliver, P. (1987), Dwellings: the House Across the World, Austin. Olson, S. D. (1998), Aristophanes Peace, Oxford. Padel, R. (1983), “Women: model for possession by Greek daemons”, in: A. Cameron / A. Kuhrt (eds.), Images of Women in Antiquity, London, 3–19. Padel, R. (1990), “Making Space Speak”, in: J. J. Winkler / F. I. Zeitlin (eds.), Nothing to Do with Dionysus? Athenian Drama in its Social Context, Princeton, 336–365. Padel, R. (1992), In and Out of the Mind: Greek Images of the Tragic Self, Princeton. Parker, R. (2005), Polytheism and Society at Athens, Oxford. Papastamati-von Moock, C. (2015), “The Wooden Theatre of Dionysos Eleuthereus in Athens: Old Issues, New Research”, in: R. Frederiksen / E. R. Gebhard / A. Sokolicek (eds.), The Architecture of the Ancient Greek Theatre: Acts of an International Conference at the Danish Institute at Athens 27–30 January 2012, Aarchus, 39–80.Purves, A. (2010), Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative, Cambridge. Raeburn, D. / O. Thomas (2011), The Agamemnon of Aeschylus, Oxford. Rehm, R. (2002), The Play of Space: Spatial Transformation in Greek Tragedy, Princeton. Revermann, M. (2006), Comic business: Theatricality, Dramatic Technique, and Performance Contexts of Aristophanic Comedy, Oxford. Rose, P. (1992), Sons of the Gods, Children of Earth: Ideology and Literary Form in Ancient Greece, New York and London. Rosenbloom, D. (2006), Aeschylus Persians, London. Schibli, H. S. (1990), Pherekydes of Syros, Oxford and New York. Schleiser, R. (1983), “Daimon und Daimones bei Euripides”, in: Saeculum 34, 267-279. Scodel, R. (1996), “Domon agalma: virgin sacrifice and aesthetic object”, in: TAPA 126, 111–128. Scolnicov, H. (1994), Woman’s theatrical space, Cambridge. Segal, C. (1963), “Nature and the world of man in Greek literature”, in: Arion 1, 19–53. Segal, C. (1982), Dionysiac Poetics and Euripides’ Bacchae, Princeton. Segal, C. (19992), Tragedy and Civilization: an Interpretation of Sophocles, Cambridge, Mass. Sewell-Rutter, N. (2007), Guilt by Descent, Oxford. Sider, D. (1978), “Stagecraft in the Oresteia”, in: AJP 99, 12–27. Sommerstein, A. (2008), Aeschylus vol. 2, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Sommerstein, A. (20102), Aeschylean Tragedy, London. Taplin, O. (1977), The Stagecraft of Aeschylus, Oxford. Taplin, O. (20032), Greek Tragedy in Action, London. Tarkow, T. (1980), “Thematic implications of costuming in the Oresteia”, in: Maia 32, 153–165. Thalmann, W. G. (1978), Dramatic Art in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, New Haven and London. Vernant, J.-P. (1983), “Hestia-Hermes: the religious expression of space and movement in ancient Greece”, in: Myth and Thought Among the Greeks, trans. J. Lloyd with J. Fort, London, 127–175 (originally published in French in: L’Homme 3.3 [1963] 12–50). Vernant, J.-P. (1991), Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays, ed. by F. Zeitlin, Princeton.

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Vernant, J.-P. / P. Vidal-Naquet (1988), Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece, trans. by P. Lloyd, Cambridge, Mass. Whallon, W. (1995), “Doors and Perspective in Choe.”, in: CQ 45, 233–236. Wiles, D. (1997), Tragedy in Athens: Performance Space and Theatrical Meaning, Cambridge. Wilson, P. / O. Taplin (1993), “The ‘aetiology’ of tragedy in the Oresteia”, in: PCPS 39, 169–180. Winnington-Ingram, R. P. (1983), Studies in Aeschylus. Cambridge. Zeitlin, F. I. (1985), “Playing the other: Theater, theatricality, and the feminine in Greek drama”, Representations 11, 63–94.

Anna Lamari

Visual Intertextuality in Ancient Greek Drama: Euripides’ Bacchae and the Use of the Art Media Introduction When intertextuality enters the sphere of performance, the visual, visuality,1 and visual allusion become significant factors in generating new connections and meanings. Such is the case with the specific nature of theatrical experience: the visual memory of a previous theatrical performance could certainly be the object of allusion, but the exact moment of performance cannot be retrieved nor reconsulted the way one would revisit a book or a monument or a painting. In these terms, visual intertextuality in drama does not correspond solely to previous performances, but also to those visual images that, stored in the audience’s memory, were prompted by performance. The aim of this paper is not to retrace well-discussed allusions, nor to discover overlooked intertextual puns, but to pin down the importance of visuality in the mental and poetic process of creating meaning. My discussion explores how Euripides employed artistic media to exploit the audience’s visual literacy in order to construct a multi-layered, polyphonic text, without putting too heavy a burden on the audience to decode verbal and textual allusions. The visual puns I am going to examine work as hyperlinks connecting a performance with mental images “stored” in the audience’s visual memory. Those unseen pictures, encrypted in the text, add to the overall perception of the play as a holistic performative experience while simultaneously preserving its verbal economy. My investigation includes case studies of visual allusions that are attested in the Bacchae and generate visual hyperlinks leading back to images and, through them, to Aeschylean tragedy. The case studies I examine share an association with the visual representation of Dionysus-induced madness. From early in the fifth century, sinister creatures such as the maenads or Lyssa, dis-

1 As opposed to an unmediated visual experience (vision), Norman Bryson defines visuality as “the entire sum of discourses” between the subject who sees and the world that is being seen (1988, 91). See also Petridou 2013, 310–12. On visuality, see Jay 1988; Harris / Fairchild Ruggles 2007. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-010

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guised gods, and the lethal delirium of delusive parents all find their way into Greek iconography, but also into the minds of Euripides’ spectators. It seems that building bridges between his texts and his spectators’ visual memory is one of Euripides’ desiderata. I will first consider the theoretical premises on which this approach is based and then move to a discussion of visual connections between the Bacchae and other representations, theatrical and pictorial, of madness induced by Dionysus.

Intertextuality and the Visual: Theory In her study of the function of images in Greek tragedy, Colleen Chaston discusses both visually-perceived and mental/verbal images.2 According to her categorisation, out of seven types of imagery that tragedy hosts, four are visually perceived and three are images in the mind.3 My theoretical investigation concentrates mainly on what she calls “images as art objects, statues or pictures”.4 There is no doubt that the visual arts and representational media in general, both plastic and pictorial, played a decisive role in the playwrights’ aesthetic conception of settings and stagecraft. Taking a step further, I shall connect fifth-century artistic media to fifth-century drama through the power of vision and visuality. Herbert Golder has talked about visual meanings in Greek drama, drawing attention to the striking recurrence of allusions to art objects, statues and pictures, and counting “more than 1000 allusions to art objects” in the tragic corpus.5 Froma Zeitlin has also discussed the relationship between theatre and the rest of the visual arts.6 According to Zeitlin, theatre and the visual arts were being shaped during the same period, and were thus influencing each other and making “new demands on the uses of imaging, the quality of spectatorship and the very notion of spectacle itself”.7 It seems beyond dispute that the rela-

2 Chaston 2010. 3 Chaston lists “art objects” (such as statues or pictures), “optical appearance” (such as the εἴδωλον of Helen), “semblance” (such as the resemblance of Oedipus to Laius), and “symbolic images” (such as Klytaimnestra’s tapestry) as the “visually perceived images” (2010, 1–21). Mental imagery is developed through “objects” (such as the shields in Seven Against Thebes), “descriptive passages” (such as the messenger reports), “figurative language” (such as metaphors and similes), or “music” (2010, 21–31). 4 Chaston 2010, 18. 5 Golder 1992, 327. 6 Zeitlin 1994. 7 Zeitlin 1994, 139.

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tionship between tragedy and the rest of the visual arts was reciprocal.8 Robert Cowan talks about the “potential” of tragic scenes “to enter and remain in the collective memory”, further identifying comedy as a fertile field “for the use of visual allusion to tragic tableaux and other visual aspects”.9 Visual allusions connecting “mirror-scenes” within the same or different plays by means of similar props have long been noted. In the 1970s, Oliver Taplin drew attention to Aeschylus’ use of mirror-scenes that repeat or point to a scene “in such a striking way as to recall the earlier event”.10 Two decades later, Pat Easterling investigated how later plays might make visual allusions through what is shown on stage and “make a reference that would be readily ‘readable’ by a large portion of the spectators”.11 The success of an allusion lies in it being recognised, namely in the identification of the intricate connection between the source and the target scene. In drama, allusions can create links between performances, mainly through intertheatricality rather than intertextuality, since the spectators are frequently expected to recall previous performances,12 or reperformances,13 either by first-hand experience as spectators, or indirectly, as part of the fifth century’s theatregoing community.14 Certainly, the success of an allusion depends heavily on the means of its signalling. Allusion to an earlier tragedy can be made visually or verbally, or by a combination of visual and verbal means, as well as contextualisation.15 Visual allusion does not only link recent with older plays through images. In an article of 1981, Stephanie Ross argued that: In addition to the standard examples of allusion from one literary work to another, we ought to recognize allusion within the other arts – from one painting to another, one symphony to another – and also allusion between the different arts – allusion from painting to poem, from sonnet to sonata, and so on.16

8 Golder considered the visual repertoire of the audience to have been so powerful that he maintained that “we must look from vase to play rather than play to vase” (Golder 1992, 323). 9 Cowan 2013, 324. 10 Taplin 1977, 100; also 100–4 on mirror-scenes in Aeschylus’ Persians. 11 Easterling 1997, 168. 12 This is even more obvious when the allusion is triggered in a comic context, such as the pretty obvious one of Dicaeopolis borrowing Telephus’ rugs from Euripides, linking the Acharnians with Euripides’ Telephus. On the double nature of this allusion, see Cowan 2013, 322. 13 On reperformances as a vital part of fifth-century theatrical culture, see Lamari 2015. 14 Lamari 2010, 117, Lamari 2009, 401–402. Yet, the power of visual allusion can scarcely surpass the time span of a generation according to Slater 2002, 187. 15 Such is the connection between the Thesmphoriazusae and Euripides’ Telephus, see Cowan 2013, 322–23. 16 Ross 1981, 69.

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In the following pages, I attempt to show that visual allusions can link a play with contemporary visual culture and thus construct a complex scheme of visual intertextuality, according to which a play alludes to images circulating in artistic media, which might in turn allude to other plays. My aim is to show that the power of the visual can create cross-modal allusions between works of art belonging to different genres. Subsequently, allusion to a painting can then prompt a further connection to another play. This would mean that the first-level target image may at times function as a “window” allowing the audience to “look” through it to another play. If the image is familiar and recognisable, the first visual allusion will work; for the second-level target image or text to be evoked, a special association is needed, one that would allow the audience to realise that the first-level image is triggered for one reason only: to “summon” the second-level one.17

Case Studies 1 The Bacchae and the Lycurgeia My focus will be the relationship between Euripides’ Bacchae and the two first plays of Aeschylus’ Lycurgan tetralogy, comprising the Edonians, the Bassarids, the Neaniskoi, and the satyr play Lycurgus.18 It is generally believed that the scene of Pentheus’ dismemberment in the Bacchae draws upon the Aeschylean description of the killings of Dryas and Orpheus.19 As the text of the Lycourgeia is fragmentary, for the most part we must tease out connections thematically. In my discussion, I attempt to show that, through a study of visual allusion, the scene of the filicide in the Bacchae has a specific visual correspondence with the analogous scenes in the Edonians and the Bassarids. The Edonians was the first play of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia. Although there are no surviving records for the date of the play, the presence of a stage building20 along with other evidence point to a late performance, towards the end 17 In literature, this phenomenon is known as a “window of allusion”. In cases of this narrative structure, “the deliberate target is more than one intertext, which are themselves already part of an intertextual relationship. This point seems to be for the poet not merely to show off his knowledge of a preexisting intertextual connection, but more often to comment on it or even create one where there can hardly have been one before” (Murray 2011, 75 n. 48, citing relevant examples and bibliography). 18 TrGF 3.123b. For an intertextual comparison of Bacchae with Aeschylus’ Dionysiac tetralogies, see Xanthaki-Karamanou, 2012. 19 Sommerstein 2008, 61, Torrance 2013, 2. 20 TrGF 3.58.

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of Aeschylus’ career, probably after the Lycurgeia of Polyphrasmon (son of Phrynichus), which won third prize in 467 BCE.21 The story focuses on the madness of the Thracian king Lycurgus after his rejection of the god Dionysus.22 The play seems to have depicted the arrival of Dionysus and his female worshipers in Thrace, their arrest by Lycurgus, and possibly the king’s subsequent delirium, which made him kill his own son Dryas with an axe, mistaking him for a vine.23 It has been proposed that Orpheus, the protagonist of the following play of the tetralogy, the Bassarids, might have also figured in this one as a devotee of Dionysus.24 The surviving fragments correspond to only one section of the narrative, namely Dionysus’ arrival in Thrace25 and his arrest by Lycurgus.26 Proposed reconstructions argue either for a delayed punishment of Lycurgus in the next play of the tetralogy,27 or for an imminent one within the story of the Edonians.28 According to recent studies, the latter seems more probable, and this is also the reconstruction I opt for. Following Martin West, I believe that Lycurgus’ killing of Dryas was the climax of the Edonians.29 Two vases dated to the middle of the fifth century seem to have been influenced by this tetralogy and further testify to this plot reconstruction.30 LIMC collects both, listed under Lykourgos I, 12*,31 and Lykourgos I, 26*.32 The first one is an Attic hydria, datable to 425–400 BCE.33 Lycurgus is presented holding

21 West 1990, 49, Sommerstein 2008; 61. 22 Apollodorus provides a parallel narrative in 3.5.1. The fragments of Naevius’ Lucourgos also point to a similar story. On a reconstruction based on Naevius’ play, see Deichgräber 1938/ 1939. 23 See West 1990, 26–32, Sommerstein 2008, 60–61. 24 If this is accepted, fr. 60 appears to refer to him (West 1990, 29–30). 25 Frr. 57–60. 26 Frr. 61–67. 27 Welcker 1826, 103–22, Hermann 1831, Deichgraber 1938/1939, Jouan 1992, 73–74. 28 Trendall / Webster 1971, 49, West 1990, 27, Taplin 2007, 68–71, Sommerstein 2008, 60–61. Murray (1940, 155) and Mette (1963, 138) also argue for Lycurgus’ punishment in the Edonians, but do not specify the type of punishment. 29 West 1990, 31. 30 The LIMC article lists nine representations of Lycurgus killing Dryas. The two discussed were produced in Attica, during the second half of the fifth century. The rest of the vases bearing scenes from the Edonians are datable to the fourth century, after the production of the Bacchae, and are henceforth secondary to our discussion. 31 Rome, Villa Giulia 55707, Fig. 8.1 in this volume; ARV2 1343-BAD 217561. 32 Krakow, Czartoryski Museum 1225, Fig. 8.2 in this volume; ARV2 1121.17-BAD 214835; Trendall-Webster 1971, III.1, 13. 33 Rome, Villa Giulia 55707, Fig. 8. 1 in this volume; ARV2 1343-BAD 217561.

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a double axe against his son, who is already decapitated. Around them, Maenads are dancing, holding swords or thyrsoi, while one of them is also holding Dryas’ decapitated head. Dryas is surrounded by branches. The other Attic hydria is slightly earlier, attributed to the third quarter of the fifth century.34 Lycurgus is drawn on the left, in Thracian cloak and boots, holding a double axe with both hands. Next to him, a woman runs towards an altar, tearing her hair. A naked youth seated on the altar raises his hands in supplication. On the right of the altar stands Dionysus, holding a thyrsus in his left hand and a vine in his right. Beyond him, a maenad dances and a satyr plays the flute. The lamenting woman must be Lycurgus’ wife, and the boy his son Dryas, just before the filicide. The second play of the Lycurgan trilogy, the Bassarids,35 depicts the murder of Orpheus in the context of Dionysiac worship. The play’s setting is Mount Pangaeum.36 Dionysus is now established in the area and his followers are the members of the chorus. According to the outline of the story as presented in Pseudo-Eratosthenes,37 the Bassarids go against Orpheus after the instructions of Dionysus, who is insulted because Orpheus regards Helios-Apollo as the greatest divinity. Orpheus finally dies at the hands of the Bassarids, the female Thracian worshippers of the god. The few attested fragments38 leave many questions regarding aspects of the plot, as well as how Orpheus’ murder took place. It is safe though to assume that Orpheus was killed offstage either by the members of the chorus, or by part of the chorus who left the orchestra, or by other Bassarids altogether.39 According to fifth-century vase paintings, Orpheus’ murder seems not to have happened in a state of frenzy. While Theban women are often represented as performing the murder of Pentheus in a state of dissociation, Thracian women are never depicted with tossed-back heads, the image of delirium par excellence. As Eurydice Kefalidou remarks, the Thracians are never shown with a tossed-back head, apparently because the painters knew what we also know from the texts, namely that the Thracians were not insane when

34 Krakow, Czartoryski Museum 1225, Fig. 8.2 in this volume; ARV2 1121.17-BAD 214835; Trendall-Webster 1971. 35 The play is also cited as Βασσάραι in the manuscripts of Pseudo-Eratosthenes. Since the word βασσάρα is used in the Edonians (fr. 59) to refer to a tunic, it is likely that Aeschylus used the longer form Βασσαρίδαι to refer to the Thracian women (Sommerstein 2008, 19). 36 fr. 23a TrGF 3. 37 Catasterisms 24. See also TrGF 3 p. 138 and West 1990, 34–36 for a reconstruction. 38 TrGF 3.23–25. 39 The last option is the least probable according to West 1990, 43.

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they killed Orpheus. … That is probably why the Thracian women carry different “weapons” … while the Theban women carry nothing but their thyrsoi.40

In a great number of Attic vases from as early as the first half of the fifth century BCE, Orpheus is presented as being killed by Thracian women bearing weapons. LIMC lists twenty Attic red-figured vases41 that present Thracian women attacking Orpheus with spears, swords or stones. Orpheus is holding his lyre, and occasionally trees or branches are also depicted. An Attic hydria of 460 BCE42 presents Orpheus garlanded, trying to escape from two women who drag him by the hair, while he is raising his lyre with his right hand against them. Women are attacking him with spears, and behind them stands a tree. A tree is also depicted behind a retreating Orpheus on an oinochoe of 430 BCE.43 Orpheus is again trying to fight back with his lyre in his right hand, while being attacked by a woman with a spear, and another with a stone, on the other side of the vase. The tree at the very back probably alludes to the rural setting of the scene, as also happens on a fragment from an Attic cup44 depicting the arm of a woman, bearing a tattoo and holding a stone. Behind her is a similar tree branch. The depiction of elements of nature like trees, springs and stones are common in tragedy- and comedy-related vases. As has been recently maintained by Vahtikari, those natural elements “may be reflecting some stage props that were taken from nature for the staging of plays”.45 A rural setting is one of the trademarks of the Bacchae, and of the dismemberment scene in particular. Dionysus’ arrival from the mountain (ἐξ ὄρους πάρεστιν, 658), as well as numerous descriptions of the Maenads’ bucolic life,46 set the tone for a play that makes full use of nature’s mystic characteristics and of the visual context familiar from vases depicting maenads.47 The narrative of Pentheus’ killing is also marked by rural references: Dionysus uses a mountain tree (κλῶν᾽ ὄρειον, 1068), which makes Pentheus visible by the

40 Kefalidou 2009, 94. 41 LIMC, s. v. Orpheus 28–51. 42 LIMC, s. v. Orpheus 28*; Boston, MFA 1890.156; ARV2 605, 62; Caskey/Beazley II 74 no 107 pl. 47,57. 43 LIMC, s. v. Orpheus 49*; Zurich, Univ. 3637; Lezzi-Hafter, 90–94, pl. 16: P. de Schuwalov. 44 LIMC, s. v. Orpheus 54*; Heidelber, Univ. B86; Kraiker, W., Die rotifigurigen attischen Vasen, Kat. Univ. Heidelberg I (1931) 16–17 no 44; Zimmermann, no 5 fig.4. 45 Vahtikari 2014, 32. 46 See for example l. 677–800. 47 For a discussion of the different meanings of the natural landscape, as well as its connection to the rural, see Segal 1997, 114–18. For vases depicting Pentheus and maenads in rural settings, see LIMC, s. v. Pentheus 2, 3, 6, 7, 10, 11, 16, 65.

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Maenads, Agave refers to her son’s decapitated head as a prey from the mountains (ἐξ ὀρέων θῆρα, 1169–1171), and Cadmus finds Pentheus’ body in the glades of Cithaeron (ἐν Κιθαιρῶνος πτυχαῖς, 1219).48 As mentioned already, it is believed that the episode of the murder of Pentheus in the Bacchae draws significantly on the Edonians and the Bassarids. In the former, Lycurgus murders Dryas in a frenzy under the impression that he is cutting vine branches, whereas in the latter, the maenads go after Orpheus and murder him. As seen on the vases just discussed, vine branches, or just floral addenda in general, are also included in the visual setting of almost every depiction of the stories of the Lycurgan plays. Taking into account that a large number of those vases date from early- to mid-fifth century, we might suppose that by the time of the performances or reperformances of the Bacchae, the depiction of a murder in a state of frenzy was connected in the audience’s visual memory to rural surroundings represented on vases through vine or floral elements. Much of the narrative of the Bacchae contains descriptions of the woods of Cithaeron that hosted the Maenads’ rites. In the process of the narrative preparation for the climax of Pentheus’ dismemberment, the messenger’s speech pays special attention to the fact that Dionysus pulled down a fir tree and put Pentheus on top. The description reads as follows (1063–75): τοὐντεῦθεν ἤδη τοῦ ξένου θαυμάσθ’ ὁρῶ· λαβὼν γὰρ ἐλάτης οὐράνιον ἄκρον κλάδον κατῆγεν ἦγεν ἦγεν ἐς μέλαν πέδον· κυκλοῦτο δ’ ὥστε τόξον ἢ κυρτὸς τροχὸς τόρνωι γραφόμενος περιφορὰν ἑλικοδρόμον· ὣς κλῶν’ ὄρειον ὁ ξένος χεροῖν ἄγων ἔκαμπτεν ἐς γῆν, ἔργματ’ οὐχὶ θνητὰ δρῶν. Πενθέα δ’ ἱδρύσας ἐλατίνων ὄζων ἔπι, ὀρθὸν μεθίει διὰ χερῶν βλάστημ’ ἄνω ἀτρέμα, φυλάσσων μὴ ἀναχαιτίσειέ νιν, ὀρθὴ δ’ ἐς ὀρθὸν αἰθέρ’ ἐστηρίζετο, ἔχουσα νώτοις δεσπότην ἐφήμενον. ὤφθη δὲ μᾶλλον ἢ κατεῖδε μαινάδας· At this point I saw the stranger perform a miraculous deed. He took hold of the tip of a fir tree that rose toward heaven, and down he pulled, pulled, pulled it to the black earth. It began to curve like a bow or a rounded wheel when its shape is being traced by the peg-and-line with its spiraling rotation. So the stranger, drawing down with his hands the mountain tree, bent it to the ground, a deed no mortal could do. Then, having set Pentheus atop the fir branches, he set the tree straight again by letting the branches slip

48 See Segal 1997, 114–18.

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upwards through his hands – gently, taking care not to unseat Pentheus – and sheer to sheer heaven it towered, with my master on its back. He now was seen by the maenads more than he saw them.49

Euripides might be using the visual impression of the description to generate allusions pointing to the rural settings of depictions of filicide in art and, through that, to look back to the Lycurgan trilogy. Through visual intertextuality, Euripides refers to a recurring theme which must have been part of his spectators’ visual memory.50 The relation I am here trying to sketch is multi-targeted. The Bacchae uses allusions to rural surroundings as windows with multiple allusion targets.51 References to the Theban landscape might point to relevant artefacts circulating in that period, and further to the plays reflected in those artefacts, in our case those of the Lycurgan trilogy. By triggering the audience’s visual memory in this way, the much-debated connection between dramatic performance and vase painting52 works backwards. In such cases, the dialogue between perfor-

49 Translation is by Kovacs 2002. 50 If this is the case, even line 1075 of the messenger speech acquires a special metatheatrical meaning, making Pentheus the centre of visual allusion. ὤφθη δὲ μᾶλλον ἢ κατεῖδε μαινάδας can be read as a metatheatrical pun alluding to the various visual representations of Pentheus and his dismemberment. The spectators are invited to recall the visual material they have been exposed to by the turn of the fifth century, and understand that after going to Mount Cithaeron, Pentheus is more “being seen” than “seeing by himself”. 51 On “window of allusion” see above, n. 18. 52 The debate entails two basic approaches, the “philodramatic” and the “iconocentric”. The terms were coined by Giuliani 1996, 72, 74, with the “philodramatic” position corresponding roughly to the acknowledgement of a specific reflection on a vase of a written dramatic text or dramatic performance and the “iconocentric” position attributing any artistic influences to the genre itself, not to drama. For brief accounts of the debate, see Giuliani 1996, 71–75, Taplin 2007, 22–26, Squire 2009, 122–34, Coo 2013, 72–74. An extreme “philodramatic” approach has been maintained in the classic works of Séchan 1926, Trendall / Webster 1971, and KossatzDeissmann 1978. A more sceptical development of this approach has been put forward by Green 1991. An extreme “iconocentric” position has been followed by Small 2003, even depicted in her book title, The Parallel Worlds of Classical Art and Text. This years-long deadlock between those opposing views is moving towards its end through more moderate opinions on both sides. Oliver Taplin (2007, 24) maintains that “the philodramatic position in its strong form is quite simply untenable”, proposing that “whatever it was that the viewers wanted from the mythological paintings, it was clearly not pictures of plays and not pictures of tragic performances. But, given the presence of tragic theater in their lives, there was no reason for them to keep these two art forms running separately along parallel lines”. Luca Giuliani 2009, 255 argues for “mythos” rather than “dramatic text” and “plots” rather than “plays”. He holds that “for the vase painter, drama and epic had the character of media, providing him with what he needed most: mythological plots that he could transpose into pictures”.

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mance and the visual arts does not stop when a vase reflects a play, but is continued when a later play looks back to the vase and through that to an earlier performance. From this point of view, Euripides would have been conscious of the visual tradition that he was inviting his spectators to recall. The subtlety of the mechanism makes it verbally imperceptible, yet visually immanent. Euripides skilfully builds intermedial intertextuality that connects performances visually, through the ocular path constructed by vase painting. Hence Bacchae alludes to contemporary art and, through that, looks back to Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia.

2 The Bacchae, the Xantriae (Wool-carders) and the Toxotides (Archeresses) Aeschylus’ Xantriae is another Dionysus-induced madness play. We do not know which trilogy it belonged to. A fragment shows that the play was about the fate of an enemy of Dionysus after his capture by female Bacchants. In fr. 169 (TrGF 3), Lyssa, who is a character in the play, exhorts the maenads to perform a sparagmos, namely to tear their victim to pieces: ἐκ ποδῶν δ᾽ ἄνω ὑπέρχεται σπαραγμὸς εἰς ἄκρον κάρα κέντημα λύσσης, σκορπίου βέλος λέγω And the rending goes up from the feet to the top of the head: I speak of the prick of madness, the sting of the scorpion.53

Only a few fragments of the play survive and the reconstruction of its content is very demanding.54 According to the current view, the play is not Thebesoriented, but deals with the rejection of Dionysus by the daughters of Minyas, the king of Orchomenos, and their subsequent Bacchic delirium, which led to the sparagmos of Hippasos, one of their sons.55 The extremely fragmentary condition of the Xantriae makes a textual/verbal interconnection with the Bacchae almost impossible. Tracing visual connections however can be considerably more fruitful. The presence of the personified Lyssa in the Bacchae, as well as the presence of the eponymous character in the Xantriae, signify a possible connection

53 Text and translation are by Sommerstein 2008. 54 For an outline of the debate, see Gantz 1980, 154–58, Sommerstein 2008, 170–172. See also Xanthaki-Karamanou 2012, 336–38. 55 LIMC s. v. Pentheus 65, 68, 69, Jouan 1992, 77, 83–84, Kefalidou 2009, 96.

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via common images of Lyssa, the deity who induces madness. Allusions to Lyssa made by Euripides in the Bacchae could have directed the audience to recall relevant images from pottery, where Lyssa was depicted in scenes of madness or Bacchic filicide, as well as from earlier plays, where Lyssa was personified as an acting character, in the manner of the Xantriae. At lines 977–80 of the Bacchae, the Chorus imagine how the hounds of Lyssa will reach the mountains and induce Bacchic frenzy to the maenads: ἴτε θοαὶ Λύσσας κύνες, ἴτ᾽ εἰς ὄρος, θίασον ἔνθ᾽ ἔχουσι Κάδμου κόραι, ἀνοιστρήσατέ νιν ἐπὶ τὸν ἐν γυναικομίμωι στολᾶι λυσσώδη κατάσκοπον μαινάδων. On, you swift hounds of madness, on to the mountain, where Cadmus’ daughters keep their assembly! Set them in frenzy against him who in womanish dress spies in madness upon the maenads!

Euripides not only personifies Lyssa, constructing a visual parallel between the Bacchae and the Xantriae, as well as the representations of Lyssa in pottery, but also builds a specific visual pun regarding Lyssa accompanied by hounds. Such a mental image, along with the shared mythological family ties, encourages an allusion to Actaeon, Pentheus’ cousin. Actaeon was the son of the sister of Agave, Autonoe, and was torn to pieces by his own, Lyssa-driven dogs because he offended Artemis (or Zeus).56 Euripides draws attention to Actaeon and his death by having Cadmus inform Agave that Pentheus died at the exact spot Actaeon had (Bacch., 1290–1291): ΑΓΑΥΗ ποῦ δ᾽ ὤλετ᾽; ἦ κατ᾽ οἶκον, ἢ ποίοις τόποις; ΚΑΔΜΟΣ οὗπερ πρὶν Ἀκταίωνα διέλαχον κύνες. AGAVE Where did he perish? At home, or where? CADMUS In the place where Actaeon was torn apart by dogs.57

56 On the different versions of the myth see Sommerstein 2008, 244–46. In the Bacchae (337– 40) Actaeon is presented as having bragged about being a better hunter than Artemis. 57 Translation is by Kovacs 2008.

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Actaeon is the central figure of Aeschylus’ Toxotides. A visual representation of Toxotides, which deals with this specific mythical snapshot of Actaeon’s death, depicts Lyssa with a hound’s head on top of her own.58 Madness-inducing Lyssa also appears on vases unconnected to the killings of Pentheus or Actaeon. As a winged deity, Lyssa replaces Dionysus on an Apulian 350 BCE calyx-krater,59 where Lycurgus is depicted in the moment of killing his own wife, having already killed Dryas. She is holding a slender goad as a weapon and is surrounded by a radiant nimbus. Numerous other representations of Lyssa as a madness-inducer have appeared on fifth- and fourth-century vases60 and consequently would have been present in the spectators’ visual memory. In the Bacchae, the spectators are invited to recall visual images representing mad violence and hostility under the attack of an avenging god. Those visual images are triggered through verbal references to Actaeon and Lyssa, which then unlock a series of hyperlinked images “nested” in the spectators’ visual memory. As in the case of its connection with the Lycurgeia, the Bacchae incorporates references to Lyssa and sparagmos that lead to a series of visual images and thus to Aeschylus’ Xantriae and perhaps also Toxotides. Artistic media create a visual channel that connects the Bacchae with previous Aeschylean performances.

A Pre-Epilogue Having discussed these cases of underlying visual connections in the Bacchae, let us dwell on how visual memory would have worked not just for the spectators, but also for the vase-painters. The construction of a mental visual image, whether reproducing/recalling an actual one or building a new one (after its narration), is the result of a number of external factors to which the spectators and painters were exposed. Theatre and pictorial art, as well as the mythical megatext, all provide material for the production of mental or actual visual images. At a later stage, wide circulation of those images, or their overlapping thematic similarities, can result in their fusion into new pictorial variations in the community’s visual memory.

58 According to Trendall/ Webster 1971, III 1.28; ARV2, 1045, no. 7. 59 London, British Museum F271: RVAp I 415–416, 5 pl. 147. See Trendall/Webster 1971, III 1.15; Taplin 2007, 70–71, fig. 8.3 in this volume. 60 See LIMC under Lyssa 1–12, 21–31.

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Such is the case with one particular representation of filicide after Dionysus’ infliction of madness. The paintings on the Villa Giulia hydria61 testify to a culture of merging different filicide myths in visual representations of Bacchic mania, which predated or coincided with Euripides’ Bacchae. In this elaborate painting, two or three different myths are combined on one vase, connected through the theme of frenzied filicide. Lycurgus, the Minyads, and perhaps also Agave, are painted with their victims, raging under the eye of Dionysus and Ariadne. Lycurgus stands next to the decapitated Dryas with his axe; his body is between some plants, but not vines, as one would expect. Two xoana standing above point to the cult of Dionysus, who is painted on the shoulder of the vase, lying on a decorated klinê next to Ariadne. A maenad carrying a sword stands on the left, and next to her stands another one, again with a sword and holding a male head. That figure is either Agave holding Pentheus,62 or a maenad carrying the head of Dryas.63 Either way, the vase is full of representations of other maenads: I count thirteen on the lower and eight on the upper part. On the right of Dionysus and Ariadne, a maenad is holding the body of a young boy; she should be one of the Minyads (Leukippe?) carrying her son, Hippasos.64 The vase uniquely incorporates three different myths. Mythical merging is depicted visually not only by means of Lycurgus’ coexistence with Agave and Leukippe, but also by depicting Dryas surrounded by plants that are not vines, and by Agave carrying a sword (a characteristic usually shared by the Bassarids) though the sparagmos of Pentheus is traditionally performed with bare hands. This type of blending of traditional visual stereotypes makes the hydria a product of visual culture, showing how myth is entwined with the visual world. It does not reproduce the vision of the painter, in other words the random depictions of the myths that he had seen, but rather the mediating visuality, namely the cultural construct between the painter’s vision and its object. The pictorial fusion of the killings of Pentheus, Dryas, and Hippasos reflects the cultural perceptions of Dionysiac frenzy to which the painter was exposed, and through which he filtered his painted object. In this light, pictorial art not only reflects a shared visual culture, but is also created according to that par-

61 See above n. 33, listed in LIMC under Lykourgos I, 12* and Pentheus 65 (= Rome, Villa Giulia 55707, Fig. 8.1 in this volume; ARV2 1343-BAD 217561). 62 LIMC s. v. Pentheus 65; For Segal 1982, 386, the “vase almost certainly presents Agave as the killer, for she is symmetrically paired with Lycurgus beside an ancient statue of Dionysus”. 63 Kefalidou 2009, 96. 64 LIMC s. v. Pentheus 68, Segal 1982, 387.

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ticular culture. Euripides was inviting his audience not just to recall images, but also to see the images he created through their own cultural and social filters. He was inviting them to see the sparagmos of Pentheus through the filters of their culturally and visually trained eye that would allow them to blend current and previous visual experiences. So much of fifth-century culture was visual that Euripides’ spectators needed to be visually literate to function coherently in their communities. Euripides advocates a way of looking that unlocks meanings and encourages his spectators to greater degrees of visual literacy. Visual culture and artistic media had already blurred the boundaries of different myths on filicide, even before Euripides wrote his requiem. The audience was already visually exposed to art that interweaved references to Agave, the Minyads, and Lycurgus, as we can see in the case of the Villa Giulia hydria. It seems probable that when Euripides was writing the Bacchae not only was he aware of that particular visual culture, but he used it on purpose, to trigger visual allusions that connected his own play to earlier plays, not textually or theatrically, but visually.

Epilogue In this chapter, I have highlighted the effectiveness of vision and visuality in the construction of cross-modal allusions that connect different representational media. In these terms, the dialogue between texts, or performances, is seen on a wider spectrum which embraces all types of fifth-century art media. Pictorial representations are thus used as mediators which channel a visual allusion from a later to an earlier play. In relation to narrative, Euripides uses allusions to artistic media in order to create a narratively rich and layered text. The Euripidean weaving of intertextuality does not limit itself to allusions to specific texts or performances, but engages the audience in encrypted visual interconnections, conducted by pictorial media, and leading to a manifold, hyperlinked narrative outcome.

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Fig. 8.1: Drawing of Attic hydria, 425–400 BCE; Rome, Villa Giulia 55707. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]).

Fig. 8.2: Drawing of Attic hydria, 3rd quarter of fifth century BCE; Krakow, Czartoryski Museum 1225. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]).

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Fig. 8.3: Apulian 350 BCE calyx-krater; London, British Museum F271. © Trustees of the British Museum.

Bibliography Bryson, N. W. (1988), “The Gaze in the Expanded Field”, in: H. Foster (ed.), Vision and Visuality, Seattle, 87–114. Chaston, C. (2010), Tragic Props and Cognitive Function: Aspects of the Function of Images in Thinking, Leiden. Coo, L. (2013), “A Sophoclean Slip: Mistaken Identity and Tragic Allusion on the Exeter Pelike”, in: BICS 56.1, 67–88. Cowan, R. (2013), “Haven’t I Seen You Before Somewhere? Optical Allusions in Republican Tragedy”, in: G. W. M. Harrison / V. Liapis (eds.), Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre, Leiden, 311–342. Deichgräber, K. (1938/1939), “Die Lykurgie des Aischylos” in: Nachrichten der Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, Philologisch-Historische Klasse, I (3), 231–309. Easterling, P. (1997), “Form and Performance”, in: P. Easterling (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy, Cambridge, 151–177. Ganz, T. (1980), “The Aeschylean Tetralogy: Attested and Conjectured Groups”, in: AJPh 101.2, 133–162.

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Giuliani, L. (1996), “Rhesus Between Dram and Death: On the Relation of Image to Literature in Apulian Vase-Painting”, in: BICS 41, 71–86. Giuliani, L. (2010), “Rhesos: On the Production of Images and the Reading of Texts”, in: E. Walter-Karydi (ed.), Myths, Texts, Images: Homeric Epics and Ancient Greek Art. Proceedings of the 11th International Symposium on the Odyssey Ithaca, September 15– 19, 2009, Ithaca, 239–256. Golder, H. (1992), “Visual Meaning in Greek Drama: Sophocles’ Ajax and the Art of Dying”, in: F. Poyatos (ed.), Advances in Nonverbal Communication, Amsterdam, 323–360. Green, J. R. (1991), “On Seeing and Depicting the Theatre in Classical Athens”, in: GRBS 32, 15–50. Harris, D. / D. F. Ruggles, (2007) (eds.), Sites Unseen: Landscape and Vision, Pittsburg. Hermann, G. (1831), De Aeschyli Lycurgia Dissertatio (= Opuscula V 3–30), Leipzig. Jay, M. (1988), “The Rise of Hermeneutics and the Crisis of Ocularcentrism”, in: Poetics Today 9.2, 307–326. Jouan, F. (1992), “Dionysos chez Eschyle”, in: Kernos 5, 71–86. Kefalidou, E. (2009), “The Iconography of Madness in Attic Vase-Painting”, in: J. H. Oakley / O. Palagia (eds.), Athenian Potters and Painters, vol. II, Oxford and Oakville, 90–99. Kovacs, D. (2002), Euripides: Bacchae, Iphigeneia at Aulis, Rhesus, Cambridge MA / London. Kossatz-Deissmann, A. (1978), Dramen des Aischylos auf west-griechischen Vasen, Mainz. Lamari, A. (2009) “Knowing a Story’s End: Future Reflexive in the Tragic Narrative of the Argive Expedition Against Thebes”, in: J. Grethlein / A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation: The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature, Berlin / New York, 399–419. Lamari, A. A. (2010), Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae, Berlin / New York. Lamari, A. A. (ed.) (2015), Reperformances of Drama in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC: Authors and Contexts, Trends in Classics 7.2, Berlin / Boston. Mette, H. J. (1963), Der verlorene Aischylos, Berlin. Murray, G. (1940), Aeschylus: the Creator of Tragedy, Oxford. Murray, J. (2011), “Shipwrecked ‘Argonauticas’”, in: P. Asso (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Lucan, Leiden / Boston, 57–79. Petridou, G. (2013), “‘Blessed is He, Who Has Seen’: The Power of Ritual Viewing and Ritual Framing in Eleusis”, in: S. Blundell / D. Cairns / N. Rabinowitz (eds.), Vision and Viewing in Ancient Greece (Helios 40.1–2), Lubbock TX, 309–341. Ross, S. (1981), “Art and Allusion”, in: Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 40, 59–70. Séchan, L. (1926), Études sur la tragédie grecque dans ses rapports avec la céramique, Paris. Segal, C. (1997), Dionysiac Poetics and Euripides’ Bacchae, Princeton. Slater, N. W. (2002), Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes, Philadelphia. Small, J. P. (2003), The Parallel Worlds of Classical Art and Text, Cambridge. Sommerstein, A. H. (2008), Aeschylus: Fragments, Cambridge MA. Squire, M. (2009), Image and Text in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Cambridge. Taplin, O. (1977), The Stagecraft of Aeschylus: The Dramatic Use of Exits and Entrances in Greek Tragedy, Oxford. Taplin, O. (2007), Pots and Plays: Interactions between Tragedy and Greek Vase-Painting of the Fourth Century B.C., Los Angeles. Torrance, I. (2013), Metapoetry in Euripides, Oxford.

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Trendall, A. D. / T. B. L. Webster (1971), Illustrations of Greek Drama, London. Vahtikari, V. (2014), Tragedy Performances Outside Athens in the Late Fifth And the Fourth Centuries BC, Helsinki. Welcker, F. G. (1826), Nachtrag zu der Schrift über die äschylische Trilogie, Frankfurt. West, M. L. (1990), Studies in Aeschylus, Stuttgart. Xanthaki-Karamanou, G. (2012), “The ‘Dionysiac’ Plays of Aeschylus and Euripides’ Bacchae: Reaffirming Traditional Cult in Late Fifth Century”, in: A. Markantonatos / B. Zimmermann (eds.), Crisis on Stage: Tragedy and Comedy in Late Fifth-Century Athens, Berlin / Boston, 323–342. Zeitlin, F. (1994), “The Artful Eye: Vision, Ecphrasis and Spectacle in Euripidean Theatre”, in: S. Goldhill / R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 138–196.

Anna Novokhatko

“You must not stand in one place”: seeing in Sicilian and Old Attic Comedy A lot of seeing takes place in drama. The playwright, actors, audience and characters are all viewing and being viewed. Whilst vision and visuality in Greek tragedy has been extensively analysed over the last decade, the same analysis has not been applied to comedy.1 In this chapter, I will examine the conceptual meaning of sight and gaze in the plot of Old Attic Comedy. The chapter will discuss five aspects of vision in comedy: how vision is staged, how it is mapped and narrated, how a character is represented in the way he/she looks, and finally how vision is incorporated into the comic plot. I will argue that just as in tragedies, so too in the surviving Aristophanic corpus the concept and semantics of sight, gaze and vision develop over time. Aristophanes uses the vocabulary of sight, he discusses sight, he stages sight and, in his later work, sight becomes central to the comic plot. I will categorise cases of sight, gaze and vision in Old Attic Comedy (Aristophanes and the broader fragmentary corpus) in order to discuss the intersection of vision with the comic. Where possible, I will also discuss fragments from Sicilian comedy as a point of comparison.

Staging sight Comedy contains many examples of creative acts of vision, staged hic et nunc by the playwright, the characters and the audience. Two examples will be discussed here. Dicaeopolis in the parodos of Aristophanes’ Acharnians (425 BCE) performs the Rural Dionysia on stage. He initiates Dionysus’ procession, offering a vision of an ideal world of peace. A sacrifice is made, the performance is conducted, and Dicaeopolis gives orders to his daughter, slaves, and wife:

1 On tragedy (particularly Euripidean drama) exploring vision, see Zeitlin 1994, Goldhill 2000, and also Bakola and Lamari in this volume. For comedy, see Ruffell 2013 on the function of visual violence, humiliation and (sexual) aggression. The focus of Ruffell’s analysis is the relationship between spectacle and audience and thus his study contributes to the broader field of (meta)theatricality. The question of comic theatricality and performance in relation to the active political role of the spectator has been discussed by Slater 2002 and Revermann 2006. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-011

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ἄγ’, ὦ θύγατερ, ὅπως τὸ κανοῦν καλὴ καλῶς οἴσεις, βλέπουσα θυμβροφάγον … πρόβαινε … ὦ Ξανθία, σφῷν δ’ ἐστὶν ὀρθὸς ἑκτέος ὁ φαλλὸς ἐξόπισθε τῆς κανηφόρου· ἐγὼ δ’ ἀκολουθῶν ᾄσομαι τὸ φαλλικόν· σὺ δ’, ὦ γύναι, θεῶ μ’ ἀπὸ τοῦ τέγους. πρόβα. (Ar. Ach. 253–62) Come, my daughter, make sure you carry the basket prettily, with a savoury-eating look … Go forward … Xanthias, walk behind the basket-bearer and hold the phallus well erect; I will follow, singing the phallic hymn; and you, wife, watch me from the roof. Forward!2

This passage imagines a complex stage set, with Dicaeopolis taking on the role of stage director, determining how characters should look (Ach. 253–4, 262) and be looked at (Ach. 259–62), how they should move (Ach. 252–3, 259–60), where they should be (Ach. 255–62),3 and what they should do (Ach. 252–3, 259–62). The emphatic use of the verbs of sight is noteworthy: the daughter “with [her] look” (βλέπουσα θυμβροφάγον) is juxtaposed to the “watching” mother (θεῶ). Dicaeopolis’ orders recall a magical ritual scene set in Sicily from the contemporary mime by Sophron The Women Who Say They Expel the Goddess (Ταὶ γυναῖκες αἳ τὰν θεὸν φαντὶ ἐξελᾶν, ca. 430 BCE): ἄγετε δὴ πεπτάσθων μοι ταὶθύραι | πάσαι. ὑμὲς δὲ ἐνταῦθα | ὁρῆτε καὶ τὸν δαελὸν | σβῆτε ὥσπερ ἔχει. (Sophr. fr. 4a.10–14 PCG) Come on, please let all the doors be wide open. You (pl.) watch over there and put the torch out straight away.

The mime probably represents a group of women performing a purification ritual to neutralise a goddess’ negative power.4 As in the Dicaeopolis passage, a person is giving orders to a number of assistants while the action (either imaginative or real) is taking place. Lines 12–13, ὑμὲς δὲ ἐνταῦθα ὁρῆτε, which direct sight, redirect the focus of the passage onto the speaker themselves, who are simultaneously being viewed.

2 All translations are my own. 3 If we agree with Olson that this order in v. 262 is intended to remove the wife from the stage, then another layer of visibility can be added, a visible character becoming invisible (cf. Olson 2002 ad loc.). 4 On the discussion of the plot and title of the mime, see Hordern 2004, 124–6.

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In both examples from Aristophanes and from Sophron, the sight-verbs are paired with ocular, textual and fictional deictic expressions and verbs of motion.5 A spatial connection both between the characters and between the speakers and objects on stage is thus established.6

Mapping a spectacle Connected to the first category, where a character stages sight, are scenes where a view or spectacle is mapped out by one or more characters. In the viewing scene incorporated into the prologue of Aristophanes’ Knights (424 BCE), “Demosthenes” offers a panorama of the lands which the Sausage-Seller is destined to conquer: Αλ. Δη. Αλ. Δη.

Αλ. Δη. Αλ. Δη.

Αλ.

τί μ’, ὦγάθ’, οὐ πλύνειν ἐᾷς τὰς κοιλίας πωλεῖν τε τοὺς ἀλλᾶντας, ἀλλὰ καταγελᾷς; ὦ μῶρε, ποίας κοιλίας; δευρὶ βλέπε. τὰς στίχας ὁρᾷς τὰς τῶνδε τῶν λαῶν; ὁρῶ … … κοὐδέπω γε πάνθ’ ὁρᾷς. ἀλλ’ ἐπανάβηθι κἀπὶ τοὐλεὸν τοδὶ καὶ κάτιδε τὰς νήσους ἁπάσας ἐν κύκλῳ. καθορῶ. τί δαί; τἀμπόρια καὶ τὰς ὁλκάδας; ἔγωγε. πῶς οὖν οὐ μεγάλως εὐδαιμονεῖς; ἔτι νῦν τὸν ὀφθαλμὸν παράβαλ’ εἰς Καρίαν τὸν δεξιόν, τὸν δ’ ἕτερον εἰς Καρχηδόνα. εὐδαιμονήσω γ’ εἰ διαστραφήσομαι. (Ar. Eq. 160–75)

Sausage-Seller: Why do you not leave me, dear, to wash the tripe and to sell the sausages, but make fun of me? Demosthenes: You idiot, what tripe? Look over here. Do you see these rows of these people? S. I see … D. … But you still don’t see everything. Get up on this table and look at all the islands around.

5 Cf. e.g. Ar. Nesoi fr. 410 PCG ὡς ἐς τὴν γῆν κύψασα κάτω καὶ ξυννενοφυῖα βαδίζει “how looking down and clouded-over she walks along”. On the three modes of linguistic deixis – ocular, textual, and fictional – and the use of deictic expressions in the context of performance, see Bühler 1999, 102–40, and Felson 2004, 254–5. See also Orth in this volume and his classification of the pragmatic use of the demonstrative iota in comedy. 6 On the connection between gaze and space in theatre, see Czirak 2012, 147–91. On the gaze in Plautus’ comedy, see Misdolea 2013.

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I’m looking at them. And? Can you see the stores and the merchant ships? Yes. Are you not greatly blessed? Now turn your right eye towards Caria and the other one towards Carthage! I’ll be blessed, if I twist my neck!

The emphatic use of sight-verbs is linked to the emphatic use of deictic expressions. They direct the audience’s eyes, and highlight the gap between mere vision and imaginary visualisation. Through this shifting, the audience is both called to perform the act of seeing (cf. βλέπε, ὁρᾷς, ὁρῶ, ὁρᾷς, κάτιδε, καθορῶ, τὸν ὀφθαλμὸν παράβαλ’ …τὸν δεξιόν, τὸν δ’ ἕτερον …) and is forced to create visualised images. The perspective expands cinematically from visible objects, to the rows of spectators, on to the market, to the harbours, to the Pnyx, and then even further to the surrounding islands, the stores, the merchant ships, and, finally, on to imagined places such as Caria and Carthage. The broadening of the scene to encompass a panoramic view contrasts with the grotesque twisting of the sausage-seller’s neck, with one eye squinting due east and the other due west.7 Aristophanes repeats this viewing device in his Clouds (423 BCE). Here, the viewing scene involves a map which Socrates’ student shows to Strepsiades, and it is replete with intertwining deictic expressions and vision verbs: Μα. Στ. Μα. Στ. Μα. Στ. Μα.

αὕτη δέ σοι γῆς περίοδος πάσης. ὁρᾷς; αἵδε μὲν Ἀθῆναι. τί σὺ λέγεις; οὐ πείθομαι, ἐπεὶ δικαστὰς οὐχ ὁρῶ καθημένους. ὡς τοῦτ’ ἀληθῶς Ἀττικὴ τὸ χωρίον. καὶ ποῦ Κικυννῆς εἰσιν, οὑμοὶ δημόται; ἐνταῦθ’ ἔνεισιν. ἡ δέ γ’ Εὔβοι’, ὡς ὁρᾷς, ἡδὶ παρατέταται μακρὰ πόρρω πάνυ. οἶδ’· ὑπὸ γὰρ ἡμῶν παρετάθη καὶ Περικλέους. ἀλλ’ ἡ Λακεδαίμων ποῦ ‘στιν; ὅπου ‘στίν; αὑτηί. (Ar. Nub. 206–214)

Disciple: Here is a cycle of the whole earth. Do you see? This is Athens. Strepsiades: What are you saying? I don’t believe you; for I do not see the judges sitting. D. This territory is truly Attica. S. And where are my fellow-tribesmen of Cicynna? D. Here they are. And Euboea here, as you see, this one, is stretched out a long way by the side of it, to a great distance.

7 On the expression τὸν ὀφθαλμὸν παραβάλλειν, see Ar. Nu. 362, and the discussion below p. 214–215.

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I see; for it was stretched out along by us and Pericles. But where is Lacedaemon? Where is it? Here it is.

Here too, the act of vision is expressed through the recurring verb of sight (ὁρᾷς, οὐχ ὁρῶ, ὡς ὁρᾷς) and by the striking prominence of deictic pronouns, articles and adverbs (αὕτη δέ σοι, αἵδεμὲν, τοῦτ’ τὸ χωρίον, ἐνταῦθ’ ἔνεισιν, ἡδέγ’, ἡδὶ, ὅπου ‘στίν; αὑτηί). The main function of this co-occurrence is again the determined spatial connection between the speakers and the objects (imaginative or on stage). A similar “viewing dialogue” (either a panoramic view or a map),8 this time indicating the area around the city of Heracleia Pontica, is presented in the contemporary Eupolis’ comedy Chrysoun Genos (before 422 BCE): A.

Ὁρῶ. Β. θεῶ νῦν τήνδε Μαριανδυνίαν (Eup. fr. 302 PCG)

A.

I see. B. And now look here at Mariandynia

In contrast to the above scene from the Clouds, where only one verb, namely ὁράω, is used, two verbs of sight are employed by Eupolis within one verse, juxtaposing “seeing” (ὁράω) with “watching/examining” (θεάομαι).9 In all three passages, the deictic strategies pose questions related to visual or cognitive perception. One speaker’s power of sight is proved, fixed and represented by the deictic (showing, pointing and other communicative) acts of the other speaker.

Narrating vision Viewing scenes can be narrated.10 Comedy makes use of, and reflects upon, the narration of vision. In the following example from Aristophanes’ Frogs, the juxtaposition of comic and visual is particularly marked. Dionysus functions as both spectator and first-person narrator, and the events and persons of the narrative are “seen” through his eyes. He narrates an imaginary scene in which he and Xanthias gaze at each other reciprocally:

8 On other options for the staging of this dialogue, such as a personified representation of Mariandynia similar to the various cities in Eupolis’ Poleis (frs. 245–7 PCG), see Olson 2016, 478. 9 See Olson 2016 ad loc. Cf. other comic passages where two or more verbs of sight are used simultaneously: Ar. V. 1215; Th. 234–5 and especially 797–800; Pl. incert. fr. 199.3–4 PCG. 10 On narrative voice and agency in drama, see Jahn 2001.

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οὐ γὰρ ἂν γελοῖον ἦν, εἰ Ξανθίας μὲν δοῦλος ὢν ἐν στρώμασιν Μιλησίοις ἀνατετραμμένος, κυνῶν ὀρχηστρίδ’, εἶτ’ ᾔτησεν ἁμίδ’, ἐγὼ δὲ πρὸς τοῦτον βλέπων τοὐρεβίνθου ‘δραττόμην, οὗτος δ’ ἅτ’ ὢν καὐτὸς πανοῦργος εἶδε, κᾆτ’ ἐκ τῆς γνάθου πὺξ πατάξας μοὐξέκοψε τοῦ χοροῦ τοὺς προσθίους; (Ar. Ran. 542–8) Wouldn’t this be a laugh, if Xanthias, a slave, upturned on Milesian blankets, kissing a dancing girl, asked me for a chamber pot, and I, looking right at him, grabbed my cucumber, and he, being a bully himself, saw me, and socked me on the jaw with his fist, knocking out my front row teeth.

Dionysus emphasises both his and Xanthias’ positions as focalisers (vv. 543– 7). Masculine sexual humour is intertwined with active spectating and the pleasure in watching another person.11 While Xanthias would be having sex with a dancing-girl, Dionysus would be glaring at him, and masturbating at the sight of Xanthias, disguised as the master, having sex. Xanthias would at that same time see (vv. 545–6) Dionysus ogling and would beat him up.12 The whole scene is framed in the gaze-and-power model, represented as a duel of one seeing and one being seen, the usurper and the usurped. Dionysus, who has lost power, now regains it through active seeing. The slave Xanthias, who is disguised as the master, loses power through being seen.13 The juxtaposition of vision (βλέπων … εἶδε) and laughter (γελοῖον) is clear. But, even more so, the comedy is self-referential, providing a commentary on its own tools: “it would be absurd, wouldn’t it? (οὐ γὰρ ἂν γελοῖον ἦν), if I would see it etc. […] and he would see me etc. (εἰ …ἐγὼ δὲ πρὸς τοῦτον βλέπων τοὐρεβίνθου ‘δραττόμην, οὗτος δ’ ἅτ’ ὢν καὐτὸς πανοῦργος εἶδε)”. Dionysus has here cast himself as both the comic playwright and the audience. Using obscene language within aischrological content, Dionysus conjures up his own comic scene within Aristophanes’ comedy. Then, in an act of criticism or metaviewing, he reflects upon the scene’s comicality, constituting a self-conscious

11 On the power of gaze and the visual dimension of power applied to cinematic narrative, see Manlove 2007. 12 On the relationship of active male sexuality with voyeurism, see Ruffell 2013, 254–71. On gaze, control and desire, see also Grethlein in this volume. 13 On the relationship between gaze and power, see Czirak 2012, 193–237.

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“arousal of laughter for its own sake”.14 The task of narrowing the focus and zooming in as if under a spotlight is accomplished through vision vocabulary. One further example of the narration of a viewing scene is from Aristophanes’ Ploutos. Carion is cast in the role of eyewitness and messenger telling Chremylos’ wife the things he has seen while lying covered up in his cloak at the Asclepium (Ar. Pl. 646–747). He relates the healing of the sight of the politician Neocleides and that of the god Ploutos by Asclepius. Again, the speaker emphasises his own status as focaliser. In response to the question of the wife of Chremylos asking him how he might have been able to see the spectacle as a whole, Carion answers that he saw it through holes in his cloak: Γυ. Κα.

σὺ δὲ πῶς ἑώρας, ὦ κάκιστ’ ἀπολούμενε, ὃς ἐγκεκαλύφθαι φῄς; διὰ τοῦ τριβωνίου· ὀπὰς γὰρ εἶχεν οὐκ ὀλίγας, μὰ τὸν Δία. (Ar. Plut. 713–15)

Wife:

But how did you see it, you who will die miserably, saying that you were covered up? Carion: Through my little cloak, for it had rather many holes in it, by Zeus.

In this way, the comic effect is again intertwined with the narration; the climax of the comedy, namely the healing of Ploutos’ eye-disease by Asclepius, is put into focus by a slave who has seen the healing through the holes in his cloak. With the messenger relating the tale both to those on the stage and to the audience off it, multiple perspectives are at work: the audience is watching Carion and Chremylos’ wife and, through Carion’s narration, they are also watching the scene of the healing at Asclepium. And while Carion is watching the scene of healing through the cloak-holes, the spectators are viewing him peeping through these holes. This multiple perspective, or divided vision, functions ironically when different meanings are attached to any given word depending on the level at which it is analysed. The polyvalence of meaning thus generates a tension between the different ways of viewing any given act. Situative and lexical divergence thus contributes to the comic effect of the spectacle.

Representing character Returning to his celebration of the Rural Dionysia in the parodos, Dicaeopolis’ suggestion to his daughter that she should move “with a savoury-eating look” 14 See Halliwell 2008, 220; more generally on the semantic field of aischrology, see ibid. 219– 37.

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(βλέπουσα θυμβροφάγον, Ar. Ach. 254) constitutes an excellent example of a comic tool, an aprosdoketon, repeatedly employed by Aristophanes.15 His stunning (καλή) daughter should beautifully (καλῶς) carry her basket with a pickleeating look. This double emphasis on the visual beauty of the daughter and her movement juxtaposed with the distorted appearance of comic characters on stage creates a deliberate incongruence between what the audience sees and what it hears.16 There is a gendered tension present in the description of the way in which the looking takes place: a young “beautiful” female creature is marching in a phallic procession symbolising dominant masculinity. An “angry look”, such as the oft-repeated Homeric formula ὑπόδρα ἰδών (“looking from under the brows”) used as a speech-introduction, is a further case in point.17 In comic language, verbs of sight often take an accusative attributive (inner accusative) adjective or noun with the meaning “to have such and such look”, instead of a common adverb.18 Thus in Aristophanes the form of the Homeric ὑπόδρα ἰδών is transformed, for example, into κἄβλεψε νᾶπυ (Ar. Eq. 631, “with a mustard-look”). Further examples include ναύφαρκτον βλέπων (Ar. Ach. 95, “with a ship-fenced look”), βλέπων ἀστραπάς (Ar. Ach. 566, “with a lightning-bolts-look”), βλεπόντων κάρδαμα (Ar. V. 455, “with a garden-cress-look”), σκύτη βλέπει(ν) (Ar. V. 643 and Eup. Chrysoun genos fr. 304 PCG, “with a whips-look”), κλέπτον βλέπει (Ar. V. 900, “with a thievish look”), βλέπων ὀπόν (Ar. Pax 1184, “with a fig-juice-look”), πυρρίχην βλέπων (Ar. Av. 1169, “with a war-dance-look”), ᾄκειαν βλέπων (Ar. Av. 1671, “with a outrage/assault-look”), ἔβλεψεν δριμὺ (Ar. Ra. 562, “with an acrid look”),

15 See Clements 2013. 16 On the Old Attic comic costume and body, see Foley 2000, Green 2002, 104, and Varakis 2010. On comic “ugliness” on stage perhaps being mitigated in the cases of young and female characters, see Revermann 2006, 145–59, esp. 150–2. On the female comic body and costumes, see Compton-Engle 2015, 28–38. 17 ὑπόδρα ἰδών occurs 17 times in the Iliad, 9 times in the Odyssey, and also at hymn. Bach. 48 and [Hes.] Scut. 445. On this formula expressing various types of anger, see the detailed discussions in Holoka 1983 and Cairns 2003, 41–4. See also Grethlein in this volume, 41–43. On the description of eyebrows as evidence for hostile emotions in Old comedy, see Olson 1999. 18 On this use of βλέπω with the inner accusative, see Kühner-Gerth 309 (§410, 3c), Borthwick 2001, 297–8, and Willi 2003, 252. One should distinguish however the use of inner accusative from expressions such as ὀξὺ βλέπειν (“to have sharp eyesight”), cf. Ar. Lys. 1201, Pl. 210, 1048. On the use of an adverb in the same position, see βλέψειας ὀστρακίνδα (Ar. Eq. 855, “potsherd/ostracism look”) and ἔβλεψε γοῦν ταυρηδόν (Ar. Ra. 804, “bull-like-look”). In tragedy the construction occurs much more rarely, cf. A. Sept. 498 φόβον βλέπων (“fear-look”) and E. Alc. 773 τί σεμνὸν καὶ πεφροντικὸς βλέπεις (“why are you looking solemn and careworn”). Cf. also Il. 22, 95 σμερδαλέον δὲ δέδορκεν (“glared out frighteningly”) and Od. 19, 446 πῦρ δ’ ὀφθαλμοῖσι δεδορκώς (“glaring out with fire from the eyes”).

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βλέπειν τὸ δεινόν (Ar. Ra. 592, “with a fearful look”), βλέποντ’ ὀρίγανον (Ar. Ra. 603a, “with an oregano-look”), βλέπων ὑπότριμμα (Ar. Eccl. 292, “with a sour-dish-look”), βλέπειν Ἄρη (Ar. Pl. 328, “with an Ares-look”), βλέπει μανικόν τι καὶ τραγῳδικόν (Ar. Pl. 424, “with a crazy and tragic look”), βλέπων ἀπιστίαν (Eup. incert. fr. 332 PCG, “with a distrust-look”), ὄμφακας βλέπειν (fr. adesp. 633 PCG, “with a sour-grape-look”).19 In this way, gaze is used to represent a character. In other words, one important method of portraying a character was to describe the way this character looks at others. The detailed description of the gaze is particularly important for theatrical performance, as heads were covered by masks, and bodies by costumes. In this context, with no neck dividing the head from the body, the distortion of the body was all the more significant. The form and movements of the body were rendered no less expressive than the face.20 All instructions with regard to gaze should therefore be understood to be completely imaginative. The verbal supplement should then be accorded even greater weight, as each fictional gaze calls for a further verbal indication. This clarifier has a double goal: to provide information on a certain character’s look, and to portray the way in which the speaker themselves interpret this look.21 In Aristophanes’ Frogs, the construction with βλέπειν is deliberately played upon. Speaking to Xanthias, who is disguised as Heracles, the chorus says: νῦν σὸν ἔργον ἔστ’, ἐπειδὴ τὴν στολὴν εἵληφας ἥνπερ εἶχες ἐξ ἀρχῆς πάλιν, ἀνανεάζειν〈αὖ τὸ λῆμα〉 καὶ βλέπειν αὖθις τὸ δεινόν … (Ar. Ran. 591–3) since you have accepted the outfit you wore before, it’s now up to you to receive your old fighting spirit anew, and once more to have a fearful look.

Xanthias replies: ἀλλ’ ὅμως ἐγὼ παρέξω ‘μαυτὸν ἀνδρεῖον τὸ λῆμα καὶ βλέποντ’ ὀρίγανον· (Ar. Ran. 602–4) but I will provide a brave spirit and I will have an oregano-look.

19 See the discussion of these passages in Taillardat 1962, 216–18 and Clements 2013, 74–7. 20 See Varakis 2010, 25. 21 On the relationship of language with facial and eye expression, see Frontisi-Ducroux 2012, 46–53.

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The dialogue here does not only pass between the chorus and Xanthias, but between genres; in reply to the elevated epic and tragic expression τὸ δεινόν, the comic register, personified in the character of the slave Xanthias, introduces ὀρίγανον.22 This is, in fact, a typical example of Aristophanes at work, crafting a comic tool, relishing it and then using it repeatedly. Characters are depicted through the way they look at others in other drama, too. In Frogs, whereas the character of Euripides is described in terms of “hearing” and “speaking”, the character of Aeschylus is described in terms of “hearing”, “speaking” and “seeing”. When the servant describes the tragedians, Euripides is portrayed as intent on examining the tragedies, word for word (801–2: ὁ γὰρ Εὐριπίδης κατ’ ἔπος βασανιεῖν φησι τὰς τραγῳδίας), whilst Aeschylus is said to have “glared like a bull, having lowered his head” (804: ἔβλεψε γοῦν ταυρηδὸν ἐγκύψας κάτω).23 Immediately afterwards, in the prelude to the agon, the Chorus builds on this “bull-look”: ἦ που δεινὸν ἐριβρεμέτας χόλον ἔνδοθεν ἕξει, ἡνίκ’ ἂν ὀξύλαλόν περ ἴδῃ θήγοντος ὀδόντα ἀντιτέχνου· τότε δὴ μανίας ὑπὸ δεινῆς ὄμματα στροβήσεται (Ar. Ran. 814–17) Certainly, the mighty thunderer will have a fearful wrath within him, then when he sees the sharp-talking tusk of his rival in art sharpening it; then with fearful fury will his eyes whirl about …

Aeschylus is supposed to see (ἴδῃ, 815) the process of Euripides’ preparation for the contest. This act of seeing is accentuated through the physical movement of his eyes (ὄμματα στροβήσεται, 817). This choral passage thus contributes to the depiction of the contest as a heroic battle, contrasting the epic wild-eyed bull gaze of Aeschylus24 with the lightness of a transient, non-heroic Euripides. The last act of viewing to be mentioned here is the well-known Socratic gaze, introduced into literary practice perhaps by Aristophanes and continuously repeated in later tradition.25 The chorus in the Clouds addresses Socrates, saying:

22 See the discussion p. 212–213 above. 23 On the “look of a bull” cf. Eur. Med. 92, 188, Her. 867–70, Hel. 1555–9, Pl. Phd. 117b, Call.fr. 194, 101–2 Pf., Nic. Al. 222. See also Cairns 2005, 136–7. 24 The epithet ἐριβρεμέτας (v. 814), applied in Homer to Zeus (Il. 13.624) and in Pindar to a lion (Isth. 4. 50), emphasises the elevated register of the passage depicting Aeschylus. 25 On the gaze and facial features of Socrates and his disciples in Greek and Roman literary tradition, see Borthwick 2001.

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ὅτι βρενθύει τ’ ἐν ταῖσιν ὁδοῖς καὶ τὠφθαλμὼ παραβάλλεις κἀνυπόδητος κακὰ πόλλ’ ἀνέχει κἀφ’ ἡμῖν σεμνοπροσωπεῖς (Ar. Nub. 362–3) as you swagger in the streets and roll your eyes, and barefoot you bear much suffering and assume for us a solemn countenance.

Socrates’ rolling eyes (τὠφθαλμὼ παραβάλλεις) recalls a verse from the viewing scene in the Knights discussed above (173–4). Socrates’ expressive gaze is built on by Plato. In the Symposium, Alcibiades quotes the aforementioned line from the Clouds in an abbreviated form: … ἔπειτα ἔμοιγ’ ἐδόκει, ὦ Ἀριστόφανες, τὸ σὸν δὴ τοῦτο, καὶ ἐκεῖ διαπορεύεσθαι ὥσπερ καὶ ἐνθάδε, βρενθυόμενος καὶ τὠφθαλμὼ παραβάλλων, ἠρέμα παρασκοπῶν καὶ τοὺς φιλίους καὶ τοὺς πολεμίους … (Pl. Symp. 221b) … then it seemed to me, Aristophanes, to quote you, that he was passing there as he does here, swaggering and rolling his eyes, gently observing both friends and enemies …

Plato’s depiction of Socrates’ rolling eyes paraphrases Aristophanes’ line and explains it as “gently observing” (ἠρέμα παρασκοπῶν). In the Phaedo, this device is extended in several recurring references to Socrates’ gaze in a speechintroduction: διαβλέψας οὖν ὁ Σωκράτης, ὥσπερ τὰ πολλὰ εἰώθει, καὶ μειδιάσας (Phd. 86d, “Socrates staring with eyes wide open, as he often used to, and smiling”), γελάσας δὲ ἅμα ἡσυχῇ καὶ πρὸς ἡμᾶς ἀποβλέψας (Phd. 115c, “laughing quietly and looking upon us”), καὶ ὁ Σωκράτης ἀναβλέψας πρὸς αὐτόν (Phd. 116d, “and Socrates looking up at him”), οὐδὲν τρέσας οὐδὲ διαφθείρας οὔτε τοῦ χρώματος οὔτε τοῦ προσώπου, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ εἰώθει ταυρηδὸν ὑποβλέψας πρὸς τὸν ἄνθρωπον (Phd. 117b, “neither having fear nor having changed anything of his colour or his face, but, as he used to do, looking under his brows at the man, with his bull-look”). In his Symposium, Xenophon has Socrates discuss the function and the aesthetics of eyes. In highlighting the superiority of his own eyes to those of Critoboulus, the topos of Socrates’ expressive gaze is once again recalled: Οἶσθα οὖν, ἔφη, ὀφθαλμῶν τίνος ἕνεκα δεόμεθα; Δῆλον, ἔφη, ὅτι τοῦ ὁρᾶν. Οὕτω μὲν τοίνυν ἤδη οἱ ἐμοὶ ὀφθαλμοὶ καλλίονες ἂν τῶν σῶν εἴησαν. Πῶς δή; Ὅτι οἱ μὲν σοὶ τὸ κατ’ εὐθὺ μόνον ὁρῶσιν, οἱ δὲ ἐμοὶ καὶ τὸ ἐκ πλαγίου διὰ τὸ ἐπιπόλαιοι εἶναι. Λέγεις σύ, ἔφη, καρκίνον εὐοφθαλμότατον εἶναι τῶν ζῴων; Πάντως δήπου, ἔφη· ἐπεὶ καὶ πρὸς ἰσχὺν τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς ἄριστα πεφυκότας ἔχει. (Xen. Symp. 5.5) “Do you know, he said, what we need eyes for?” “Clearly, he said, in order to see”. “If so, my eyes would be already better than yours”. “Why?” “Because yours look only straight ahead, whilst mine look from the side as well, because they are not deep-set”. “Are you saying, he said, that a crab has the best eyes of all animals?” “Surely, he said, because he has by nature the strongest position for the eyes”.

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Socrates’ gaze acquired the qualities of a topos for his contemporaries and was remembered by his disciples after his death. In Plato’s and Xenophon’s narratives, these verbal descriptions have the function of characterising Socrates’ physiognomics and character. In Aristophanes, the description of Socrates’ rolling eyes by the Cloud-chorus (who were nature deities) has multiple functions in both emphasising the peculiarity of the gaze itself and accentuating the chorus’ interpretation of Socrates’ look. The visual modification of Socrates’ mask, costume and appearance on stage through its verbal description is crucial. In the presentation of dramatic characters, the verbal emphasis on gaze and various ways of looking is linked to the imaginary nature of each gaze being hidden under a mask.

Incorporating contemporary sight theories into the plot Theories of sight and vision developed intensively during the fifth century BCE by the pre-socratics Alcmaeon of Croton, Empedocles, Democritus, Anaxagoras and Diogenes of Apollonia, the sophists Protagoras and Gorgias, the Hippocratic circle and others.26 Evidently these discourses of viewing are reflected in theatre, “the place for looking” and for “exploring the act of visual perception”, be it tragic or comic.27 The increasing self-reflexivity and self-theorising of drama towards the end of the fifth century BCE lent itself to the incorporation of theoretical reflections of sight, vision and spectacle into the essence of theatre.28 As has been noted elsewhere, as the fifth century progressed, tragedy became ever more interested in the visual conditions of performance. In this respect, it is certainly suggestive that the terminology of vision is rare in Aeschylus, but occurs with increasing regularity in Sophocles and Euripides.29

26 On theoretical approaches to vision in the fifth century BCE, see e.g. Beare 1906, 9–42, Rouveret 1989, 100–6, Rudolph 2016, Nightingale 2016, 54–6. 27 Goldhill 2000, 165. 28 On the theoretical approach to theatrical performance as reflected in tragedy and satyr drama, see Valakas 2009. 29 Cf. Goldhill 2000, 174–5. On the interaction between viewing and learning, and contemporary epistemological discussions reflected in tragedy, see Thumiger 2013. Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus has been analysed extensively in the context of sophistic problems of perception; see bibliography in Goldhill 2000, 165, n. 15.

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The nature of the surviving comic corpus does not allow us to draw similar conclusions for comedy. There are some hints in comic fragments that contemporary scientific discourses on the origin of sight influenced the language of comedy. For example, there is a verse of Epicharmus (before 450 BCE), which may reflect contemporary philosophical ideas on sight: νοῦς ὁρῆι καὶ νοῦς ἀκούει· τἄλλα κωφὰ καὶ τυφλά (Epich. incert. fr. 214 PCG) the mind sees and the mind hears; the other things are deaf and blind

Several contemporary sources deal with the same concept. One example is Anaxagoras, who believed that the mind (or intelligence) controls all things: νοῦς δέ ἐστιν ἄπειρον καὶ αὐτοκρατὲς καὶ μέμεικται οὐδενὶ χρήματι, ἀλλὰ μόνος αὐτὸς ἐπ’ ἐωυτοῦ ἐστιν (“the mind is unlimited and self-ruling and mixed with no other things, but is alone by itself”).30 The mind is therefore contrasted to the senses. The knowledge and power of mind (γνώμην γε περὶ παντὸς πᾶσαν ἴσχει καὶ ἰσχύει μέγιστον· καὶ ὅσα γε ψυχὴν ἔχει καὶ τὰ μείζω καὶ τὰ ἐλάσσω, πάντων νοῦς κρατεῖ, “that holds the whole knowledge about everything and is the most powerful; and whatever has a soul, be it a greater or a smaller thing, mind rules over everything”) is opposed to the feebleness and powerlessness of the senses (ὑπὸ ἀφαυρότητος αὐτῶν).31 This corresponds to the juxtaposition of νοῦς to τἄλλα in Epicharmus’ verse. The power of mind seems to be emphasised stylistically through the repetition of νοῦς καὶ νοῦς in Epicharmus’ line, mirroring Anaxagoras’ use of the polyptoton ἴσχει καὶ ἰσχύει. Furthermore, the opposition of mental and visual activity is stressed in Parmenides: λεῦσσε δ’ ὅμως ἀπεόντα νόωι παρεόντα βεβαίως (“gaze durably at things which, though absent, are still present in your mind”, 28 B4.1 DK). Comparable antagonism can be found in his younger contemporary Empedocles: τὴν σὺ νόωι δέρκευ, μηδ’ ὄμμασιν ἧσο τεθηπώς (“on her [love] you gaze with your mind, not with your eyes sitting amazed”, 31 B.17.21 DK). The vocabulary of sight

30 Anax. 59 B12 DK. On Anaxagoras’ views on the nature and activity of mind, see also 59 B11, 13, 14 DK. Some similar discourses may be reflected in Epicharmus’ and Anaxagoras’ older contemporary Xenophanes: οὖλος ὁρᾶι, οὖλος δὲ νοεῖ, οὖλος δέ τ’ ἀκούει (“all of him sees, all of him apprehends, and all of him hears”, 21 B24 DK). On the intertextual relationship of Epich. fr. 214 PCG with contemporary and later sources, see Kerkhof 2001, 81–3. 31 Anax. 59 B21 DK. Cf. further in the same cover-text for this fragment, the development of Anaxagoras’ thought: οὐ δυνήσεται ἡ ὄψις διακρίνειν τὰς παρὰ μικρὸν μεταβολὰς καίπερ πρὸς τὴν φύσιν ὑποκειμένας (“the sight won’t be able to distinguish little changes although they underlie nature”, Sext. Math. 7.90).

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(λεῦσσε, δέρκευ, ὄμμασιν) is clearly contrasted to the vocabulary of cognition (νόωι).32 Attic comedy also reflects theoretical discussions on vision. The concept of vision and visuality is emphasised not only through the prominent vocabulary of sight in all the later surviving comedies by Aristophanes such as the Thesmophoriazusae (411 BCE), Frogs (405 BCE), Ecclesiazusae (391 BCE?), and Ploutos (388 BCE), but it is also incorporated into the plot of each of these comedies.33 For example, contemporary discourses on vision are reflected in the prologue of the Thesmophoriazusae, in the dialogue between Euripides and his Inlaw.34 This conversation preludes the main action of the play which deals with the topic of appearance, visuality and disguise. The play starts with the Inlaw asking about their destination and Euripides answering that it is not necessary for him to hear what he is going to see (5–6 οὐκ ἀκούειν δεῖ σε πάνθ’ ὅσ’ αὐτίκα ὄψει παρεστώς and 7 οὐχ ἅγ’ ἂν μέλλῃς ὁρᾶν) and it is not necessary to see what he is going to hear (8 οὐχ ἅγ’ ἂν ἀκούειν δέῃ). He further says that the nature of not hearing is distinct from that of not seeing (11 χωρὶς γὰρ αὐτοῖν ἑκατέρου ‘στὶν ἡ φύσις), and this is because Aether created different sense organs when, after separating from Chaos, he (or it) created moving animals in him (or it)-self (14–15 αἰθὴρ γὰρ ὅτε τὰ πρῶτα διεχωρίζετο καὶ ζῷ’ ἐν αὑτῷ ξυνετέκνου κινούμενα). The discourse which Euripides reproduces reflects various contemporary discourses. The cosmogonic tale about the separate nature of seeing and hearing is built on the traditional pattern of being formed out of chaos, with the Aether becoming distinct, bringing forth creatures from within, and with the god’s creation of sensory organs (16 ἐμηχανήσατο ὀφθαλμόν, “prepared/constructed the eye”). Empedocles thus depicts the goddess Aphrodite as shaping the eyes, using verbs of hand-made crafting: ἐξ ὧν ὄμματ’ ἔπηξεν ἀτειρέα δῖ’ Ἀφροδίτη (“from which the divine Aphrodite fixed unyielding eyes”, Emp. 31 B86 DK), γόμφοις ἀσκήσασα καταστόργοις Ἀφροδίτη (“Aphrodite who worked with bolts of love”, 31 B87 DK), and Κύπριδος ἐν παλάμηισιν ὅτε ξὺμ πρῶτ’ ἐφύοντο (“when they first grew together in Cypris’ hands”, 31 B95 DK).35 32 Recall also Pindar’s fragment from a paean stating that poets’ minds are blind unless directed by the Heliconian muses: τ]υφλα̣[ὶ γὰ]ρ ἀνδρῶν φρένες, | ὅ]στις ἄνευθ’ Ἑλικωνιάδων | βαθεῖαν ε..[..].ων ἐρευνᾷ σοφίας ὁδόν. (Pind. Pae. fr. 52h.18–20 Maehler) “for the minds of men are blind, who among them seeks for the high way of poetic skill absent the Heliconian muses”. 33 On many other resemblences between Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae and Ploutos, see Sommerstein 2001, 20–2. 34 See the detailed discussion of these lines in Clements 2014a, 12–27. 35 On the possible intertextual relationship of Aristophanes’ verse 18 ἀκοῆς δὲ χοάνην ὦτα διετετρήνατο (“it bored ears as a funnel for hearing”) and Empedocles’ 31 B84.9 DK 〈αἳ〉 χοάνηισι δίαντα τετρήατο θεσπεσίηισιν (“which had been bored right through by divine fun-

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Finally, as Aristophanes’ Euripides puts it, Aether first crafted the eye in imitation of the disc of sun granting the capacity for vision (16–17: ᾧ μὲν βλέπειν χρὴ πρῶτ’ ἐμηχανήσατο ὀφθαλμὸν ἀντίμιμον ἡλίου τροχῷ). The comparison of the eye with the sun as a result of the sun’s capacity for vision through its own light-emanation was a poetic cliché. It had already been used in Homeric language and was later discussed in scientific discourses.36 Another of Aristophanes’ sources here might have been Gorgias, who discussed the interchange between seeing and hearing in his On Not-Being (perhaps 440s BCE).37 The notion of the juxtaposition of hearing and seeing as expressed by Euripides and repeated by the Inlaw in the Aristophanic prologue corresponds to the distinction argued in Gorgias: οὐ τὰ μὲν ὁρατὰ ἐκβάλλομεν ὅτι οὐκ ἀκούεται, τὰ δὲ ἀκουστὰ παραπέμπομεν ὅτι οὐχ ὁρᾶται (ἕκαστον γὰρ ὑπὸ τῆς ἰδίας αἰσθήσεως ἀλλ’ οὐχ ὑπ’ ἄλλης ὀφείλει κρίνεσθαι) (Gorg. 82 B3.8–10 DK)

nels”), see Rashed 2007, 27–9 with a rather too strong suggestion “Aristophanes is again parodying Empedocles” (p. 29) and Clements 2014a, 24–5 with further bibliography. 36 See Austin & Olson 2004 ad loc. and Clements 2014a, 26 n. 31. Cf. Il. 3.277 Ἠέλιός θ’, ὃς πάντ’ ἐφορᾷς καὶ πάντ’ ἐπακούεις (“and Helios, you behold everything and hear everything”), Od.11.15–16 οὐδέ ποτ’ αὐτοὺς Ἠέλιος φαέθων καταδέρκεται ἀκτίνεσσιν (“and the radiant Helios never looks down upon them with his rays”), Hes. Theog. 759–60 οὐδέ ποτ’ αὐτοὺς Ἠέλιος φαέθων ἐπιδέρκεται ἀκτίνεσσιν (“and the radiant Helios never looks upon them with his rays”), h. Cer. 70 καταδέρκεαι ἀκτίνεσσι (“you look down upon with your rays”), Hes. Theog. 450–51 οἳ μετ’ ἐκείνην ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἴδοντο φάος πολυδερκέος Ἠοῦς (“who could see after her with their eyes the daylight of the much-seeing Eos”), Theog. 755 ἡ μὲν ἐπιχθονίοισι φάος πολυδερκὲς ἔχουσα (“she is bringing to the men on earth the much-seeing daylight”), A. Ch. 985–6 ὁ πάντ’ ἐποπτεύων τάδε Ἥλιος (“the all-this-watching Helios”), A. fr. 192.5 ὁ παντόπτας Ἥλιος (“the all-seeing Helios”), [A.] PV 91 τὸν πανόπτην κύκλον ἡλίου (“the all-seeing disc of the sun”), Soph. OC 869 ὁ πάντα λεύσσων Ἥλιος (“the all-seeing Helios”). Cf. also comic passages where the sun as the eye of heaven is addressed, such as Ar. Ach. 1184–1185 (a tragic quotation, see Olson 2002 ad loc.), Nu. 285–90 (by the chorus in the strophe). On Pythagoras’ and Parmenides’ ideas on visual rays extended out of the eyes, see 28 A48 DK (= Aët. 4, 13): Ἵππαρχος ἀκτῖνάς φησιν ἀφ’ ἑκατέρου τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν ἀποτεινομένας τοῖς πέρασιν αὑτῶν οἱονεὶ χειρῶν ἐπαφαῖς περικαθαπτούσας τοῖς ἐκτὸς σώμασι τὴν ἀντίληψιν αὐτῶν πρὸς τὸ ὁρατικὸν ἀναδιδόναι. ἔνιοι καὶ Πυθαγόραν τῆι δόξηι ταύτηι συνεπιγράφουσιν ἅτε δὴ βεβαιωτὴν τῶν μαθημάτων καὶ πρὸς τούτωι Παρμενίδην ἐμφαίνοντα τοῦτο διὰ τῶν ποιημάτων (“Hipparchus says that the rays from each of the eyes, streched out to their limits, as if they are hands touching, enclosing external bodies and rendering an apprehension of the bodies to sight. Some ascribe this opinion to Pythagoras as well, as he was an authority in knowledge, and also to Parmenides who displayed this through his poetry”). Cf. also Plato’s characterisation of the eye: ἡλιοειδέστατόν γε οἶμαι τῶν περὶ τὰς αἰσθήσεις ὀργάνων (“I find it [the eye] the most similar to the sun of the sense organs”, Pl. Resp. 508b). 37 On a much-discussed intertextual relationship between Aristophanes and Gorgias here, see Clements 2014a, 33–42 with bibliography.

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we do not reject the visible because it is not heard, and we do not dismiss the audible because it is not seen (for each of them should be distinguished by its own sense, and not by another)

The next play worth mentioning is the Frogs, whose comic plot is set around the concept of (in)visibility. The semantics of vision seem to have been a prominent theme in all plays involving a descent to Hades, with the Frogs belonging to a group of comedies which may have had this katabasis as a theme.38 We do not however know of any other comedy with a scene set in Hades, as in the Frogs, since extant fragments do not provide enough material to assume a setting of the underworld. The etymology of Hades itself suggests “invisibility” (a possible etymology being ἀ- privativum and ἰδεῖν in Ἅιδης). “To go to Hades” equals “to die”, whilst φῶς means both “daylight” and “life”. Thus we might have seen prominent vocabulary of sight in plays with such themes, had more text had been preserved. Furthermore, the scientific theories alluded to in the prologue to the Thesmophoriazusae, discussed above, are probably employed as dramatic tools on stage in the Frogs as well (not necessarily a deliberate allusion, but rather an unconscious use of a common source). Thus Gorgias’ juxtaposition of visibility (τὰ μὲν ὁρατὰ) with audibility (τὰ δὲ ἀκουστὰ) might be echoed by the double chorus: the invisible but audible frog-chorus,39 calling to mind the theriomorphic choruses, and the both visible and audible chorus of Eleusinian initiates.40 The fallible nature of sight discussed by Anaxagoras is emphasised further in the interplay of “seeming” and being”, as in Dionysus’ and Xanthias’ multiple disguises.41 Dionysus is disguised as Heracles in front of the real Heracles

38 The descent to Hades was mentioned in other comedies such as Aristophanes’ Gerytades (fr. 156 PCG), Eupolis’ Demoi (fr. 99.56–7, 64–5 PCG), Pherecrates’ Krapataloi (frr. 86 and 100 PCG) and Metallēs (fr. 113 PCG), Strattis incert. fr. 64 PCG, Ameipsias incert.fr. 22 PCG. On fifthcentury drama with the theme of the descent to the underworld, see Sommerstein 1996, 9–10 and Lada-Richards 1999, 119–20. 39 On the invisibility and the mere audibility of the frog-chorus, see Allison 1983. Thus Gorgias’ thesis οὐ τὰ δὲ ἀκουστὰ παραπέμπομεν ὅτι οὐχ ὁρᾶται (“we do not dismiss the audible because it is not seen” Gorg. 82 B3.8–10 DK) is perhaps illustrated on stage. 40 See Hubbard 1991, 202: “The Frogs’ marsh is merely a dark region through which Dionysus passes on his heroic pilgrimage, and when, scarcely fifty lines later, the chorus comes into the orchestra in visible form, they are revealed to be not slimy green frogs, but pure and holy mystic Initiates”. Note also Hubbard’s argument about the invisibility of the Frogs indicating “something about the disappearance of Old Comedy and its extravagantly costumed choruses” (pp. 201–2, n. 123). 41 Cf. Ruffell 2013, 253 on Dionysus’ and Xanthias’ disguise: “As in other instances of incomplete disguise or transformation, the butts are both the viewer and the viewed”. See also LadaRichards 1999, 161–4 and 168–72.

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(45–6); furthermore, in front of Pluto’s palace, Xanthias “becomes” Heracles, and Dionysus “becomes” a slave (499), then they exchange costumes again. At the exchange between the chorus and Xanthias in the antistrophe, with the chorus advising Xanthias on how he should “look” dressed as Heracles (593: βλέπειν τὸ δεινόν “with a fearful look”), Xanthias in turn answers the question of how he would “look” (604: βλέποντ’ ὀρίγανον “with an oregano-look”). Dionysus makes a pun of this game of disguising “to be”/ “to seem”, and this plays a significant role in the first part of the play. The vocabulary of sight is thus prominent in the comedy; Xanthias mentions his eye-disease (192: ἔτυχον ὀφθαλμιῶν “I happened to catch an eye-disease”) as a result of which he did not fight in the naval battle, and then in the dialogue after disembarkation between the frightened Dionysus and Xanthias, Xanthias’ visual experience is discussed on both narratological and metatheatrical levels (the verb ὁράω appearing at 274, 276, 288, 307). Finally, when Dionysus decides that Aeschylus should be brought back, the decision is asserted and contested once again in terms of vision: Ευ. Δι. Ευ.

αἴσχιστον ἔργον προσβλέπεις μ’ εἰργασμένος; τί δ’ αἰσχρόν, ἢν μὴ τοῖς θεωμένοις δοκῇ; ὦ σχέτλιε, περιόψει με δὴ τεθνηκότα; (Ar. Ran. 1474–76)

Euripides: Are you looking at me, you who has done this really shameful thing? Dionysus: Why shameful, if it does not seem so to the spectators? Euripides: Wretched person, will you stand there and observe me dead?

The three verbs expressing sight in these lines (προσβλέπεις, τοῖς θεωμένοις, περιόψει) refer to different ways of seeing. Euripides’ use of προσβλέπεις indicates Dionysus’ audacity, his look equated with shamelessness. In Dionysus’ answer, the metatheatrical τοῖς θεωμένοις introduces the additional perspective of an audience, watching the spectacle on stage, and adjudicating the shame. Euripides’ final attack with the use of περιόψει returns to Dionysus’ capacity for seeing while not doing. Dionysus and the audience, witnesses who are presented as not acting, are merged. The structure does not only emphasise the multiple perspectives of viewers involved, but contrasts viewing with action, with the shame shifting from action, to inaction, to the viewing process itself. Intertextual references in these lines add a further level of complexity as the lines encode parallel acts of seeing recalled by the spectators.42 42 Cf. Soph. Phil. 110 πῶς οὖν βλέπων τις ταῦτα τολμήσει λακεῖν; (“with what kind of face will one dare to utter such words?”, on parallels between shame and gaze in tragedy, see Schein 2013 ad loc.), Eur. Aeolus fr. 19 TrGF τί δ’ αἰσχρὸν ἢν μὴ τοῖσι χρωμένοις δοκῇ; (“why shameful, if it does not seem so to those who practice it?”). For further parallels and bibliography, see Sommerstein 1996, 293.

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The imagery of light and darkness is also prominent in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae, signifying what can be perceived and what remains hidden. Light and darkness, visible and invisible, are connected to gender opposition, the dichotomy of male and female.43 In its very first lines, Praxagora opposes light with darkness, praising her torch as the Sun-god as “the radiant eye of the whirling lamp”, thus introducing one of the main metaphorical domains of the play:44 Ὦ λαμπρὸν ὄμμα τοῦ τροχηλάτου λύχνου κάλλιστ’ ἐν εὐστόχοισιν ἐξηυρημένον· γονάς τε γὰρ σὰς καὶ τύχας δηλώσομεν· τροχῷ γὰρ ἐλαθεὶς κεραμικῆς ῥύμης ὕπο μυκτῆρσι λαμπρὰς ἡλίου τιμὰς ἔχεις· ὅρμα φλογὸς σημεῖα τὰ ξυγκείμενα. (Ar. Eccl. 1–6) O radiant eye of the whirling lamp, perfectly invented by one who aimed well. We will reveal your birth and fortunes, for whirled on the wheel by the potter’s power you bear the bright honours of the sun from your nostrils. Send forth the fiery signals as arranged.

The eye-metaphor is significant also because the same metaphor had earlier been used as a simile by Empedocles. In a fragment, already mentioned in the context of the Thesmophoriazusae above, Empedocles introduces the comparison of the lamp with the eye: ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις πρόοδον νοέων ὡπλίσσατο λύχνον χειμερίην διὰ νύκτα, πυρὸς σέλας αἰθομένοιο, ἅψας παντοίων ἀνέμων λαμπτῆρας ἀμοργούς, οἵ τ’ ἀνέμων μὲν πνεῦμα διασκιδνᾶσιν ἀέντων, φῶς δ’ ἔξω διαθρῶισκον, ὅσον ταναώτερον ἦεν, λάμπεσκεν κατὰ βηλὸν ἀτειρέσιν ἀκτίνεσσιν· ὣς δὲ τότ’ ἐν μήνιγξιν ἐεργμένον ὠγύγιον πῦρ λεπτῆισίν 〈τ’〉; ὀθόνηισι λοχάζετο κύκλοπα κούρην, 〈αἳ〉 χοάνηισι δίαντα τετρήατο θεσπεσίηισιν· αἳ δ’ ὕδατος μὲν βένθος ἀπέστεγον ἀμφιναέντος, πῦρ δ’ ἔξω διίεσκον, ὅσον ταναώτερον ἦεν. (Emped. 31 B84 DK) And as when someone who planned to go out prepared a lamp for the stormy night, a light of burning fire, fitting lanterns as shields against various winds, which scattered the breath of blowing winds, whilst the light, as it is finer, shot forth, and shone on the threshold with its unyielding rays; so then (she?) ensnared the round-faced eye, a primeval fire wrapped in membranes and in delicate clothes, pierced through by divine funnels.

43 On the opposition of gender roles in this comedy, see Fontaine 1988, 50–2. 44 See the thorough discussion of the lamp as an eye in Bielfeldt 2016, 126–9. On the language and style of Praxagora’s monologue, see Ussher 1973 ad loc. and Sommerstein 1998 ad loc.

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And these held back the depth of water flowing around, whilst they let the fire, as it is finer, pass through.45

The use of the same “light” and “fire” vocabulary is noteworthy: in Aristophanes’ we note λαμπρὸν (1), λαμπρὰς ἡλίου τιμὰς (5), ὅρμα φλογὸς σημεῖα (6) and λάμπεις (13); in Empedocles, we find λαμπτῆρας (3), λάμπεσκεν ἀτειρέσιν ἀκτίνεσσιν (6), πυρὸς σέλας αἰθομένοιο (2), φῶς δ’ ἔξω διαθρῶισκον (5), ὠγύγιον πῦρ (7), πῦρδ’ ἔξωδιίεσκον (11).46 Another important parallel is the role Aphrodite plays in both passages; in Empedocles, Aphrodite is in all probability the one who crafted the eye,47 whilst in the same scene of Ecclesiazusae, the lamp stands in bedrooms when the women try out sexual exercises (8–9 κἀν τοῖσι δωματίοισιν Ἀφροδίτης τρόπων πειρωμέναισι πλησίος παραστατεῖς, “when we try out Aphrodite’s styles in our bedrooms you stand close by”) and nobody banishes her supervisory eye from the room (10–11 ἐπιστάτην ὀφθαλμὸν οὐδεὶς τὸν σὸν ἐξείργει δόμων “no one shuts your supervisory eye out of the house”).48 Finally, both Empedocles and Aristophanes emphasise the (contradictory) artificial yet organic nature of the eye.49 Vision is presented in terms of the light emitted from the lamp in Aristophanes (5–6 μυκτῆρσι λαμπρὰς ἡλίου τιμὰς ἔχεις· ὅρμα φλογὸς σημεῖα τὰ ξυγκείμενα “you have the sun’s radiant honours in your nostrils; cast the flaming signal as arranged”) whilst in Empedocles the light (fire) is emitted from the eye (πῦρ δ’ ἔξω διίεσκον “they let the fire pass through to the outside” 31 B84.11 DK). The lamp and the eye are both static and passive (ἐξηυρημένον “invented” in Aristophanes and ἐεργμένον “wrapped” in Empedocles)50 and dynamic and active, something that is made clear through the use of the active mood of the verbs (ὅρμα φλογὸς σημεῖα “cast the flaming signal” in Aristophanes and αἳδ’ ὕδατος μὲν βένθος ἀπέστεγον “they [the divine funnels] held back the depth of water” and πῦρ δ’ ἔξω διίεσκον “they let the fire pass through to the outside” in Empedocles). Praxagora’s monologue also reflects contemporary discussions. The same image and vocabulary of light as connected with the nature of the eye are found

45 On the discussion of this fragment, see also Michel in this volume, p.xx–xx. 46 Cf. Od. 19.446 πῦρ δ’ ὀφθαλμοῖσι δεδορκώς (“glaring out with fire from the eyes”). On the metaphor of “fiery eyes” through history, see Park 1997. 47 On the meaning and the subject of the verb λοχάζετο in Empedocles’ fragment, see the discussion in Rashed 2007, 22–4. 48 On the erotic connotations of the lamp, cf. also Hippon. fr. 17 W2 κύψασα γάρ μοι πρὸς τὸ λύχνον Ἀρήτη (“bending down towards me to the lamp Arete”). 49 See Bielfeldt 2016, 129. 50 See also v. 3 λαμπτῆρας ἀμοργούς (“lanterns as shields”) in Empedocles.

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in contemporary medical treatises influenced by cosmological studies. The account of the senses is placed among the first principles of cosmology in the fifth century BCE περὶ φύσεως ἱστορία, as is clear from Hippocratic treatise On flesh (Περὶ σαρκῶν, 450–400 BCE).51 Here, the author emphasises that he makes use of the natural philosophers as a source (οἳ φύσιν ξυγγράφοντες)52 and goes on in Chapter 17 to discuss the operation of sight as one of the sense organs: τούτῳ γὰρ τῷ διαφανεῖ ἀνταυγέει τὸ φῶς καὶ τὰ λαμπρὰ πάντα· τουτέῳ οὖν ὁρῇ τῷ ἀνταυγέοντι· ὅ τι δὲ μὴ λαμπρόν ἐστι μηδὲ ἀνταυγεῖ, τουτέῳ οὐχ ὁρῇ· (Hipp. Carn. 17) For in this transparency, light and all bright things reflect; one sees through this reflection. And does not see through whatever is not bright and does not reflect.

The process of seeing (ὁρῇ versus οὐχ ὁρῇ) is explained through the intensive use of the semantic field of light (τὸ φῶς, τὰ λαμπρὰ πάντα, λαμπρόν) with the opposition “light means seeing” versus “no light means no seeing”. This sounds like a scientific support and explanation of Praxagora’s invocation to λαμπρὸν ὄμμα.53 Further, Praxagora’s husband is given the speaking name Βλέπυρος.54 He appears for the first time disguised in his wife’s clothes, looking for his own clothes on stage, and concerned “lest he be seen by anyone whilst shitting” (322: οὐ γάρ με νῦν χέζοντά γ’ οὐδεὶς ὄψεται). Comic effect stemming from double vision is incorporated into the dramatic action through the repeated motif of appearance and disguise, with Blepyros’ change of clothing a consequence of this topsy-turvy field. Blepyros’ name is put to further use when he wishes to follow his wife to the Agora in order “to be looked at”: φέρε νυν ἐγώ σοι παρακολουθῶ πλησίον, ἵν’ ἀποβλέπωμαι καὶ ταδὶ λέγωσί με· “τὸν τῆς στρατηγοῦ τοῦτον οὐ θαυμάζετε;” (Ar. Eccl. 725–27) Now I will be following you close behind and will be looked at by people and they will say this of me “Do you not admire this Generalissima’s husband over there?”

51 See Clements 2014b, 129–31 and Craik 2015, 42–8. 52 Hipp. Carn. 15. 53 On the Greek poetic and scientific tradition of “radiant eyes” and “visual rays”, see Rizzini 1998, 128–40. See also n. 31 above. 54 Kanavou 2011, 172–3, esp. n. 776 on the attestations of the name Βλέπυρος and other names of the same stem in Attica. Cf. Βλεψίδημος, which is a speaking name in the Ploutos; pace Sommerstein 1998, 168 we are not “merely dealing here with typical names for old men in comedy”. In both the Ecclesiazusae and the Ploutos, we are confronted with speaking names referring to eyesight, and in both these comedies the topic of vision is of crucial significance.

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Apart from ἀποβλέπωμαι (“I am looked at”), θαυμάζετε (“you wonder at”) with the deictic τὸν τῆς στρατηγοῦ τοῦτον is a verb of vision.55 Blepyros thus wants to be “seen” from multiple perspectives, by people in the market passing by, and, with his imaginative self-conceit growing, by those who are in turn encouraged by these people “to look at him and wonder”. This multiplicity of perspectives is emphasised grammatically through the use of the first person singular passive (ἀποβλέπωμαι) and the second person plural active (θαυμάζετε). My last and perhaps most significant example of vision being incorporated into dramatic action comes from the last surviving Aristophanic comedy, the Ploutos (388 BCE, the first production perhaps in 408 BCE). The plot of the comedy is set around the concept of sight, both physical and metaphorical.56 The intensive use of vocabulary of sight emphasises the extraordinary importance of vision in the play, as witnessed by the recurrence of the nouns βλέμμα (367, 1022), ὀφθαλμός (769), κόρη (as “pupil of the eye”, 635), βλέφαρα (721, 730, 736, 822), ὀφθαλμία (115),57 the adjective τυφλός (13, 15, 48, 90, 403, 494, 634, 665, 747, 858) the verbs βλέπω (15, 99, 116, 210, 401, 424, 460, 494, 505, 510, 666, 738, 746, 968, 1048, 1113, 1159, 1173), ἀναβλέπω (95, 117, 126, 792, 866), προσβλέπω (1014), ὁράω (332, 713, 1045), σκοπέω (409), ἐκτυφλόω (301), ἐξομματόω (635). Verses 634–36 are quoted from one of the two Sophoclean tragedies about the blind seer Phineus and the Argonauts, where the vocabulary of sight was emphasised: (ἀντὶ γὰρ τυφλοῦ?) ἐξωμμάτωται καὶ λελάμπρυνται κόρας, Ἀσκληπιοῦ παιῶνος εὐμενοῦς τυχών (Soph. fr. 710 TrGF) (Instead of being blind?) he has been restored to sight and lightened with his eye-pupils, finding the well-disposed Asclepius Paeon

The ironic play on sight and blindness, ignorance and knowledge, is central to many other tragedies, such as Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex or Ajax. The lyric part of the parodos of Ploutos represents intertextually the blinding of Polyphemus

55 On the semantic closeness of θαυμάζειν and θεᾶσθαι both being verbs of visual perception in the language of Homer, see Prier 1989, 84–7, and Hunzinger 2002. 56 The relationship of Aristophanes’ Ploutos to Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus, produced in 401 BCE, and the correspondence of Ploutos to Oedipus have been convincingly discussed by Compton-Engle 2013. 57 Cf. the use of the verb ὀφθαλμιάω (“suffer from ophthalmia”) in Aristophanes’ Geras (fr. 132 PCG) and Frogs (Ra. 192). See Jouanna 2000, 175–6.

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the Cyclops (290–301).58 The blinding of sighted Polyphemus is thus contrasted with Asclepius curing the blind Ploutos.59 The “blind Ploutos” as a topos is also intertextually loaded in the comedy, since it was used by earlier poets of various genres, such as the mid-sixth century BCE iambic poet Hipponax,60 the early fifth century BCE lyric poet Timocreon of Rhodes,61 and Euripides.62 It is notable that in both the Ecclesiazusae and Ploutos, the vocabulary of sight is used in mocking the contemporary orator and politician Neocleides.63 Neocleides’ eye-disease is mocked as a symbol of his political short-sightedness and imprudence.64 But the fact that a politician is mocked for his blindness in two plays where sight and vision are a central focus tells us as much about Aristophanes’ techniques as a playwright as about his political preferences. In the Ecclesiazusae, the noun γλάμων describing Neocleides’ eye-disease is juxtaposed with the verb ὁρᾶν in the following verse: Γυ. Πρ.

τί δ’ ἢν Νεοκλείδης ὁ γλάμων σε λοιδορῇ; τούτῳ μὲν εἶπον εἰς κυνὸς πυγὴν ὁρᾶν. (Ar. Eccl. 254–5)

First woman: What if Neocleides the bleary-eyed abuses you? Praxagora: I told him to look up at a dog’s arse.

As the ancient scholiast suggests, Praxagora is here using “a children’s saying on those suffering from eye-disease” who are “to look up at a dog’s arse and the arse of three foxes”.65 With this offensive saying, Praxagora advises the short-sighted Neocleides how he should better ὁρᾶν.

58 Cf. Od. 9.319–33, 375–97 and the contemporary dithyramb by Philoxenus of Cythera Cyclops or Galatea (PMG 815–24). See Sommerstein 2001 ad loc. 59 The nosological imagery of disease and healing of the polis in late fifth century tragedy had earlier been used by Aristophanes in his Wasps (422 BCE). Thus here in the Ploutos Aristophanes both returns in a self-referential way to his own play Wasps and alludes to Sophocles’ treatment of the topic in his Oedipus at Colonus and the Phineus. On the use of the nosological imagery and vocabulary in various late fifth century genres, see Mitchell-Boyask 2008, esp. 153–82 and 187–91. 60 Hipp. fr. 36 W2: Πλοῦτος ἔστι γὰρ λίην τυφλός. 61 Timocr. PMG 731: ὦ τυφλὲ Πλοῦτε. 62 Eur. fr. 776 TrGF: ὄλβος αὐτοῖς ὅτι τυφλός. On earlier references to the god Wealth, see Sommerstein 2001, 5–8. 63 Neocleides is also mentioned in Aristophanes’ Pelargoi fr. 454 PCG (the reason for this play being dated to the 390s BCE). 64 Cf. Archedemos who is similarly being mocked as a γλάμων (“blear-eyed”) in Ra. 588 and Dover 1993 ad loc. The oath of Dionysus following on from one of the disguising scenes ends with the onomasti komodein “bleary-eyed Archedemos”, an emphatic γλάμων. 65 Sch. in Eccl. 255. See Ussher 1973 ad loc. and Sommerstein 1998 ad loc.

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Further, Chremes relates to Blepyros the morning assembly at the Pnyx and Neocleides debating how to save the polis there:

Βλ.

…. κᾆτ’ εὐθέως πρῶτος Νεοκλείδης ὁ γλάμων παρείρπυσεν. κἄπειθ’ ὁ δῆμος ἀναβοᾷ πόσον δοκεῖς, “οὐ δεινὰ τολμᾶν τουτονὶ δημηγορεῖν, καὶ ταῦτα περὶ σωτηρίας προκειμένου, ὃς αὐτὸς αὑτῷ βλεφαρίδ’ οὐκ ἐσώσατο;” ὁ δ’ ἀναβοήσας καὶ περιβλέψας ἔφη “τί δαί με χρὴ δρᾶν;” “σκόροδ’ ὁμοῦ τρίψαντ’ ὀπῷ, τιθύμαλλον ἐμβαλόντα τοῦ Λακωνικοῦ, σαυτοῦ παραλείφειν τὰ βλέφαρα τῆς ἑσπέρας”, ἔγωγ’ ἂν εἶπον, εἰ παρὼν ἐτύγχανον. (Ar. Eccl. 398–407)

Chremes:

Blepyros:

And then straight away the bleary-eyed Neocleides creeped forward first. On that the public cries out very loud: “Isn’t it scandalous that this man should dare to speak, and that too when the subject is salvation of the polis? He could not save his own eyelash!” And that one cried out and gazed around him saying: “Well, and what should I do?” “Rub together garlic and fig-juice, chuck in some Laconian spurge, and rub it on to your eyelids in the evening”; that is what I would have said, if I would happen to have been there.

The picture of a blurred and unprotected eye as subject to hurt and decay is used for political abuse, with Blepyros (who knows how to see!) commenting on Chremes’ narrative with a parody of a medical recipe. Three years later in the Ploutos, the bleary-eyed Aristophanic Neocleides has become totally blind: εἷς μέν γε Νεοκλείδης, ὅς ἐστι μὲν τυφλός, κλέπτων δὲ τοὺς βλέποντας ὑπερηκόντικεν (Ar. Plut. 665–6) One of them was Neocleides, who being blind, when stealing, has outdone those who can see.

This is Carion’s report to Chremylus’ wife about his visit to the sanctuary of Asclepius.66 One of the patients at the shrine was Neocleides, who may well be τυφλός, but when it comes to stealing, he has outdone those βλέποντας. Further the story of Neocleides’ eyes healing is told:

66 On Carion’s narration of his visit, see above p. 211.

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πρῶτον δὲ πάντων τῷ Νεοκλείδῃ φάρμακον καταπλαστὸν ἐνεχείρησε τρίβειν, ἐμβαλὼν σκορόδων κεφαλὰς τρεῖς Τηνίων· ἔπειτ’ ἔφλα ἐν τῇ θυείᾳ συμπαραμειγνύων ὀπὸν καὶ σχῖνον· εἶτ’ ὄξει διέμενος Σφηττίῳ κατέπλασεν αὐτοῦ τὰ βλέφαρ’ ἐκτρέψας, ἵνα ὀδυνῷ το μᾶλλον. ὁ δὲ κεκραγὼς καὶ βοῶν ἔφευγ’ ἀνᾴξας· ὁ δὲ θεὸς γελάσας ἔφη· “ἐνταῦθά νυν κάθησο καταπεπλασμένος, ἵν’ ὑπομνύμενον παύσω σε τὰς ἐκκλησίας.” (Ar. Plut. 716–25) First of all [Asclepius] started rubbing a poultice for Neocleides having thrown three heads of Tenian garlic. Then he crushed into the mortar fig-juice and squill mixing them all together. Then having diluted it with Sphettian vinegar he applied it turning back Neocleides’ eyelids, to cause more suffering. Neoclides shrieked, howled, and rose to run, but the god laughed and said “Now sit here plastered, so that I might stop you objecting under oath at the assemblies”.

Asclepius’ refusal to heal Neocleides’ blindness corresponds to the restoration of Ploutos’ eyesight and thus supports the play’s structure. Here too, comedy uses one of its key building blocks, the onomasti komodein, and combines it with the vocabulary of vision, precisely because vision is central to this particular comedy’s purposes. The distinction between the comic representation of character and the incorporation of sight into the dramatic action is therefore blurred: with the blind politician failing to save the polis juxtaposed to Ploutos’ capacity to see anew, comic representation both mirrors and constitutes a part of the plot. The recipes, the rubbed mixture of garlic (σκόροδον) and acid fig-juice (ὀπός) applied onto the eyelids (τὰ βλέφαρα), by Asclepius in the Ploutos and Blepyros in the Eccelsiazusae are very similar. The correspondence of Neocleides’ eyes healing with medical writings is remarkable. Two treatises belonging to the Hippocratic corpus reveal a particular interest in the eye: On sight (Περὶ ὄψεως) and On places in man (Περὶ τόπων τῶν κατὰ ἄνθρωπον).67 In both treatises eye-diseases and their treatment are described. Some other treatises such as On diseases of women (Περὶ γυναικείων) mention eye remedies sporadically.68 Greek eye medicine applied acerbic and harsh ingredients, probably to cause tears and to thus heal the eye through washing, and thus the Aristophan-

67 Various dates have been proposed for both treatises. Craik dates them both to the first half of the fifth century BCE perhaps to the West Greek area, Italy or Sicily. On the historical, linguistic and stylistic discussion of date and provenance of both texts, see respectively Craik 1998, 25–9 and Craik 2006, 15–19. 68 See Hipp. VA 6, Loc. hom. 13.6–7, Mul. 1.102, 105. Cf. also Hipp. Vict. 2.54.1.

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ic mixture for Neocleides’ eye treatment does not sound too fanciful.69 Whilst Aristophanes created a new setting for known recipes by putting them into a comic context, the recipes themselves reflect the knowledge of ophthalmology of Aristophanes’ time. Furthermore, contemporary scientific discourses on sight focused mainly “on the physical side of the perceptual process, aiming first to establish the nature and mechanism of the ‘information transfer’ to the senses and then to explain how this led to knowledge about the world”.70 The language of sight and vision used in comedy is material and tactile, and this physicality is emphasised and actively incorporated on stage, the comic playwright stressing the physical, corporal, embodied nature of vision. In this way, seeing – the act itself and its physical and emotional consequences – becomes an inseparable and amalgamated part of the comic strategy, integrated through various devices and techniques. Contemporary debates on the nature and function of vision both support and are reflected in the comic plot. In conclusion, the aim of this paper was to reveal the multi-layered relationship between the author, the spectator, the actor, the character and the disguised character at the moment of performance. Through the incorporation and reflection of contemporary sight theories, comedy rethought sight and vision, presenting them self-referentially. Through the staged or mapped spectacle meet narrated vision, gaze representing character, ocularcentrism and polycentrism. The necessary multi-perspective approach to the act of seeing in comedy recalls an argument of Chinua Achebe, who argued in an interview that the same person would tell a story differently depending on where he was standing. Achebe employed the example of Igbo masquerades. “Igbo people say, if you want to see it well, you must not stand in one place”.71 Although fifth-century Greek spectators were sitting in one place during theatrical performances, the metaphor is appropriate with regard to both watching the comedy then and reading it today.

69 On Aristophanes’ ophthalmological recipes and their relation to Hippocratic treatises, see the detailed discussion in Totelin 2016, 296–304. 70 Rudolph 2016, 53. 71 www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1720/the-art-of-fiction-no-139-chinua-achebe

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Christian Orth

Visual and non-visual uses of demonstratives with the deictic ι in Greek Comedy Introduction Demonstrative pronouns, and in particular those strengthened by the deictic -ί, are among the elements of the language of Greek comedy that point most clearly to visible aspects of the stage action. It is however not always easy to decide whether, in a particular instance, the strengthened pronoun actually refers to something directly visible. There are several reasons for this difficulty: 1. The elements of the stage action are not transmitted directly, but can only be inferred from hints in the text. 2. Often more than one of the possible functions of demonstratives may play a role at the same time. 3. There is still no comprehensive and systematic study of the use of demonstratives (with and without ι) in Greek comedy.1

1 Such a study is of course outside the scope of the present paper and would require a full database of all the demonstrative pronouns in Greek comedy, which should take account, among others, of the following parameters: (1) the different pronouns (ὅδε, οὗτος, ἐκεῖνος); (2) forms with and without deictic -ί (like οὑτοσί and οὗτος); (3) the use of the pronoun (exophoric, endophoric, recognitional; see below); (4) the reference of the pronoun (e.g. to a person, an object, an event, a proposition). The most comprehensive study of the demonstratives with -ί that I am aware of is Martín de Lucas 1996, who does not however discuss the question of how far these demonstratives can be taken as evidence for the stage presence of persons or things (but cf. Martín de Lucas 2011). For this aspect, some of the most valuable discussions can be found in commentary entries on single passages of Greek comedy (e.g. Dover 1968, 104–5 ad Ar. Nub. 83, Arnott 1996, 107 ad Alex. fr. 19.1, Konstantakos 2000, 133–34), which are, however, often from the beginning limited to just part of the material (e.g., only demonstratives referring to persons and/or objects, but not those referring to propositions) and do not attempt a systematic treatment that covers all possibilities.

Note: I am grateful to Stelios Chronopoulos for his generous help and suggestions. On the deictic -ί in general cf. López Eire 1996, 111–12, Martín de Lucas 1996, Willi 2002, 117, 118, Willi 2003, 244–45, Martín de Lucas 2011. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-012

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The aim of the present chapter is to get a clearer idea about the different uses of demonstrative pronouns with -ί in Greek comedy, and in particular to question the common opinion that demonstratives with -ί must always refer to visible elements of the stage situation.

Different uses of demonstrative pronouns The different uses of demonstrative pronouns in Greek comedy can be divided into three main categories:2 1. exophoric: “demonstratives that are used with reference to entities in the speech situation” (Diessel 1999, 93). 2. endophoric: demonstratives that “refer to elements of the ongoing discourse” (Diessel 1999, 93).3 This category can further be subdivided on the one hand into demonstratives referring to a noun (or noun phrase)4 or a proposition5, on the other hand into demonstratives referring to what precedes (anaphoric)6 or what follows (cataphoric) in the text. 3. recognitional: demonstratives that “are used to indicate that the hearer is able to identify the referent based on specific shared knowledge” (Diessel 1999, 93). In this paper, I will try to show that demonstratives with -ί can belong not only to the first, but also to the second (including its various subdivisions) and even third of these categories. 2 The categories used here owe much to the discussion of the pragmatic use of demonstratives in various modern languages by Holger Diessel (1999, 93–114), who, however, distinguishes four categories, exophoric, anaphoric (referring to a preceding noun (phrase)), discourse deictic (referring to a proposition) and recognitional, and uses endophoric as an umbrella term for the three uses that are not exophoric (i.e., anaphoric, discourse deictic and recognitional). 3 Diessel speaks of “anaphoric and discourse deictic demonstratives”, which, in the categorisation adopted here, together form one single category. 4 Cf. Diessel’s anaphoric use, which is however limited to the reference to “a prior NP”. For an example of a demonstrative referring to a noun phrase that follows in the text, see below p. 236. 5 Diessel’s discourse deictic use. 6 For the ambiguity of the term anaphoric cf. Diessel 1999, 165 n. 165: “In the literature, the notion anaphoric is used in two different ways: on the one hand it refers to the tracking use of demonstratives, and on the other hand it indicates that a pronoun, noun (phrase) or adverb refers to an element of the preceding discourse. In the former sense, ʻanaphoric’ contrasts with the terms ʻexophoric’, ʻdiscourse deictic’ and ʻrecognitional’; in the latter sense, it contrasts with the term ʻcataphoric’.” I will use anaphoric here only in reference to the preceding discourse.

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The exophoric use of demonstratives with -ί This is the most frequent use of the demonstratives with -ί (in fact, it is so common that one can easily be misled into thinking that it is the only regular use in Greek comedy). It can be further subdivided into several sub-categories according to the precise reference: to the speaker himself (Ar. Ach. 134 προσίτω Θέωρος ὁ παρὰ Σιτάλκους. :: ὁδί); to a part of his body (so probably Ar. Ach. 111–12 ἄγε δὴ σύ, φράσον ἐμοὶ σαφῶς πρὸς τουτονί, | ἵνα μή σε βάψω βάμμα Σαρδιανικόν);7 to persons present on stage (Ar. Ach. 115 Ἑλληνικόν γ’ ἐπένευσαν ἅνδρες οὑτοιί), in the audience (Ar. Vesp. 74–75 Ἀμυνίας μὲν ὁ Προνάπους φήσ’ οὑτοσὶ | εἶναι φιλόκυβον αὐτόν, 78–79 ὁδὶ δέ φησι Σωσίας πρὸς Δερκύλον | εἶναι φιλοπώτην αὐτόν) or just arriving at that moment on stage (Ar. Ach. 40 ἀλλ’ οἱ πρυτάνεις γὰρ οὑτοιὶ μεσημβρινοί); to an object the speaker gives to another person (Ar. Ach. 130–31 ἐμοὶ σὺ ταυτασὶ λαβὼν ὀκτὼ δραχμὰς | σπονδὰς ποῆσαι πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους μόνῳ) or that is present somewhere on stage (Ar. Eq. 237 τουτὶ τί δρᾷ τὸ Χαλκιδικὸν ποτήριον;); or to something visible on a map (Ar. Nub. 211–12 ἡ δέ γ’ Εὔβοι’, ὡς ὁρᾷς, | ἡδὶ παρατέταται μακρὰ πόρρω πάνυ). Further distinctions can be drawn between persons or things actually visible on stage and persons or things that are inside a building visible on stage (cf. e.g. Ar. Vesp. 211–15; for further examples see Konstantakos 2000, 133), and of course one cannot always be sure whether a character who suggests (by using a demonstrative with -ί) that something is somewhere on stage is telling the truth (cf. Ar. Eq. 1196–98).

The endophoric use of demonstratives with -ί Quite often a demonstrative with -ί does not refer to an element of the speech situation, but to something said immediately before or afterwards. Most examples of this use refer to a proposition (where there is no danger of confusion with the exophoric use). This use can both refer backwards (anaphoric, e.g. Ar. Ach. 558 ταυτὶ σὺ τολμᾷς πτωχὸς ὢν ἡμᾶς λέγειν, 593 ταυτὶ λέγεις σὺ τὸν στρατηγὸν πτωχὸς ὤν;) and forwards (kataphoric; e.g. Ar. Vesp. 54–57 φέρε νῦν κατείπω τοῖς θεαταῖς τὸν λόγον, | ὀλίγ’ ἄτθ’ ὑπειπὼν πρῶτον αὐτοῖσιν ταδί, | μηδὲν παρ’ ἡμῶν προσδοκᾶν λίαν μέγα, | μηδ’ αὖ γέλωτα Μεγαρόθεν κεκλεμμένον, where ταδί is not protected by the metre, and Ar. Av. 137–42 ὅπου συναντῶν μοι ταδί τις μέμψεται / ὥσπερ ἀδικηθεὶς παιδὸς ὡραίου πατήρ· |

7 For the reference of τουτονί at line 111, see Olson 2002, 107–8.

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“καλῶς γέ μου τὸν υἱόν, ὦ Στιλβωνίδη, | (…)”, where it is).8 The demonstrative can also be combined with a noun (Ar. Eq. 27–29 πλήν γε περὶ τῷ δέρματι | δέδοικα τουτονὶ τὸν οἰωνόν. :: τί δαί; | :: ὁτιὴ τὸ δέρμα δεφομένων ἀπέρχεται). It can also refer to just part of the proposition (Ar. Eq. 188–90 ἀλλ’, ὦγάθ’, οὐδὲ μουσικὴν ἐπίσταμαι / πλὴν γραμμάτων, καὶ ταῦτα μέντοι κακὰ κακῶς. | :: τουτί σε μόνον ἔβλαψεν, ὅτι καὶ κακὰ κακῶς), or not to the proposition itself, but its content (Ar. Eq. 721 χὠ πρωκτὸς οὑμὸς τουτογὶ σοφίζεται, Ar. Eq. 1346 ταυτί μ’ ἔδρων, ἐγὼ δὲ τοῦτ’ οὐκ ᾐσθόμην;). There are also at least two examples in Old Comedy where it refers directly to a person (not present on stage) mentioned just before (Pherecr. fr. 155.19–21 ὁ δὲ Τιμόθεός μ’, ὦ φιλτάτη, κατορώρυχε | καὶ διακέκναικ’ αἴσχιστα. :: ποῖος οὑτοσὶ / ⟨ὁ⟩ Τιμόθεος;, Ar. Eq. 128–31 ὁ χρησμὸς ἄντικρυς λέγει | ὡς πρῶτα μὲν στυππειοπώλης γίγνεται, | ὃς πρῶτος ἕξει τῆς πόλεως τὰ πράγματα. | :: εἷς οὑτοσὶ πώλης. τί τοὐντεῦθεν; λέγε [cf. 133 δύο τώδε πώλα, where τώδε has the same function as οὑτοσί at line 131]).9 That a demonstrative pronoun with -ί can also refer forward to an object mentioned in the following text, is suggested by three passages from a scene from Aristophanes’ Acharnians in which Dikaiopolis entreats Euripides to give him several of the props used in his tragedies. In Ar. Ach. 462–63 ἀλλ’, ὦ γλυκύτατ’ Εὐριπίδη, τουτὶ μόνον | δός μοι, χυτρίδιον σπογγίῳ βεβυσμένον, the demonstrative τουτί refers to the object mentioned in the next verse; there is no reason to suppose that it is already present on stage in this moment.10 Similarly, in Ar. Ach. 466–69 καίτοι τί δράσω; δεῖ γὰρ ἑνός, οὗ μὴ τυχὼν / ἀπόλωλ’. ἄκουσον, ὦ γλυκύτατ’ Εὐριπίδη· | τουτὶ λαβὼν ἄπειμι κοὐ πρόσειμ’ ἔτι· | εἰς τὸ σπυρίδιον ἰσχνά μοι φυλλεῖα δός and 475–78 Εὐριπίδιον ⟨ὦ⟩ γλυκύτατον καὶ

8 Both forward and backward references are combined in Ar. Av. 166–71 (Pe.) αὐτίκα | ἐκεῖ παρ’ ἡμῖν τοὺς πετομένους ἢν ἔρῃ | “τίς ἐστιν οὗτος”; ὁ Τελέας ἐρεῖ ταδί· | “ἄνθρωπος ὄρνις ἀστάθμητος, πετόμενος, | ἀτέκμαρτος, οὐδὲν οὐδέποτ’ ἐν ταὐτῷ μένων”. | (Eu.) νὴ τὸν Διόνυσον εὖ γε μωμᾷ ταυταγί. 9 Cf. also Men. Georg. 63 (mentioned by Konstantakos 2000, 133 in a list of examples for the use of οὑτοσί referred to something “only present in the speaker’s mind”) νὴ τὸν Δί’, εὖ δῆθ’ οὑτοσί (εὖ δὴ τουτογὶ Wilamowitz). 10 Cf. Olson 2002, 194 ad Ar. Ach. 462–3: “Nowhere else in this part of this scene (450–478) does Dik. point to an object that is already fully visible and ask Eur. for it, and part of the fun in fact consists of the way in which one miserable stage-prop after another is brought forth and held up for the audience’s inspection (cf. 435, 457). τουτί therefore does not qualify χυτρίδιον (thus Hall and Geldart, followed by Sommerstein and Henderson), but gives notice of what is to come (cf. 477–478). One must therefore either place a half-stop or the like at the end of 462 and assume an ellipse of αἰτῶ σε vel sim. (thus Reisig, followed by van Leeuwen, Starkie, and Rogers), or put a comma after μοι. The first possibility is awkward and unlikely, and I adopt the second, which finds a close analogy in 458–459”.

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φίλτατον, | κάκιστ’ ἀπολοίμην, εἴ τί σ’ αἰτήσαιμ’ ἔτι | πλὴν ἓν μόνον, τουτὶ μόνον, τουτὶ μόνον· | σκάνδικά μοι δὸς μητρόθεν δεδεγμένος, the demonstrative τουτί refers to the object mentioned in the next verse (although it could be argued that it also somehow takes up respectively ἑνὸς in line 466 and ἓν μόνον in line 477).

The recognitional use of demonstratives with -ί The least frequent (and least known) use of demonstratives with -ί in Greek comedy is the recognitional, which has so far hardly been recognised at all.11 A good example is Ar. Eq. 1373–80: Demos declares that in the future he will not allow men without beards to shop in the market (1373). Asked by the Sausage-Seller where, then, Kleisthenes and Straton (two Athenians routinely mocked as beardless) can do their shopping (1374), he answers that his law is not directed against them, but refers instead to the young men that frequent the stands of the perfume sellers (Ar. Eq. 1375–77 τὰ μειράκια ταυτὶ λέγω τἀν τῷ μύρῳ, | ἃ τοιαδὶ στωμύλλεται καθήμενα, / “σοφός γ’ ὁ Φαίαξ, δεξιῶς τ’ οὐκ ἀπέθανεν. | […]”). These young men have not been mentioned before, nor is there reason to suppose that he is referring to a group of persons present in the theatre (although some of them actually might be). On the contrary, τἀν τῷ μύρῳ seems to indicate that ταυτί does not allude to the presence of the young men in the theatre, but is rather used to activate knowledge that the speaker and audience share. A further characteristic feature of the recognitional use of demonstratives is also present here; according to Diessel, the recognitional use is not only limited to demonstratives “that are … used adnominally” (Diessel 1999, 105; cf. here τὰ μειράκια), but is also, “in order to facilitate the identification task” (ibid. 107), frequently accompanied by “relative clauses and other noun modifiers” (ibid. 107; cf. here τἀν τῷ μύρῳ and the following relative clause). Another probable example for the recognitional use of a demonstrative with -ί is fr. 12 K.-A. of Polyzelus, a comic poet active around the turn from the fifth to the fourth century BCE:12 χὠ μαινόμενος ἐκεινοσὶ Διονύσιος | χρυσοῦν ἔχων χλίδωνα καὶ τρυφήματα | ἐν τῷ μύρῳ παρ’ Ἀθηναίων βαυκίζεται. Again, we find both the elements most characteristic of the recognitional use: the use of the demonstrative with a noun (Διονύσιος) and a further element that facilitates identification (ὁ μαινόμενος). And again, ἐν τῷ μύρῳ βαυκίζεται makes it

11 On this use of demonstratives in modern languages see in general Diessel 1999, 105–9. 12 On Polyzelus cf. Orth 2015, 286–365, and for a full commentary of the fragment ibid. 355–62.

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unlikely that ἐκεινοσί is a reference to the presence of the Dionysius mentioned here. And if, as seems likely (cf. line 3 παρ’ Ἀθηναίων), the Dionysius meant here is the tyrant of Syracuse, it is probable that he is not even in Athens, and ἐν τῷ μύρῳ refers here not to a place in the Athenian agora, but to a similar place to be imagined in Syracuse. Once it has been established that a demonstrative pronoun with -ί can also be recognitional, the same use can also be suspected in two other, more ambiguous passages, again taken from the scene with Euripides from the Acharnians (Ar. Ach. 418–19 τὰ ποῖα τρύχη; μῶν ἐν οἷς Οἰνεὺς ὁδὶ | ὁ δύσποτμος γεραιὸς ἠγωνίζετο; 426–27 ἀλλ’ ἦ τὰ δυσπινῆ θέλεις πεπλώματα | ἃ Βελλεροφόντης εἶχ’ ὁ χωλὸς οὑτοσί;). While it is well possible that there is also an exophoric reference of ὁδί and οὑτοσί (for example, to some requisite connected to the heroes)13, it is clear that neither Oineus nor Bellerophontes themselves are present on stage. And again, in both cases the demonstrative is not only used in connection with a noun – in this case, as in the fragment of Polyzelus, a proper name (418 Οἰνεύς, 427 Βελλεροφόντης) – , but there is also additional information facilitating the recognition (419 ὁ δύσποτμος γεραιός, 427 ὁ χωλός). Maybe the most likely explanation in this case is a combination of both exophoric and recognitional use.14 Finally, particularly intriguing are two passages where (in different functions) both a demonstrative without -ί and a demonstrative with -ί are used. In Ar. Nub. 25–27 Strepsiades hears his son Pheidippides give orders to his horses in his sleep (25 Φίλων, ἀδικεῖς. ἔλαυνε τὸν σαυτοῦ δρόμον), and comments on it with the words (26–27) τοῦτ’ ἐστὶ τουτὶ τὸ κακὸν ὅ μ’ ἀπολώλεκεν· | ὀνειροπολεῖ γὰρ καὶ καθεύδων ἱππικήν. The most natural interpretation of these lines is that τοῦτ’ at the beginning of line 26 refers directly back to Pheidippides’ words in line 25, while the rest of line 26, τουτὶ τὸ κακὸν ὅ μ’ ἀπολώλεκεν, refers to what Strepsiades has said about 10 lines earlier (14–16 ὁ δὲ κόμην ἔχων | ἱππάζεται τε καὶ ξυνωρικεύεται / ὀνειροπολεῖ θ’ ἵππους. ἐγὼ δ’ ἀπόλλυμαι | …). The – at first sight paradoxical – situation that the demonstrative without -ί refers to something much nearer in time (and therefore more

13 So Olson 2002, 183 ad Ar. Ach. 418–19 (and cf. 186 ad Ar. Ach. 426–27). 14 This may also be the case in Ar. Lys. 283 τασδὶ δὲ τὰς Εὐριπίδῃ θεοῖς τε πᾶσιν ἐχθράς (mentioned by Konstantakos 2000, 133 as the only example in extant Aristophanes and Menander “used for persons not on stage”: “τασδί for the women in the Acropolis, i.e. in the building which the skene represents”), where τασδὶ could directly point to the building where the woman are, but in combination with the additional hints given (τὰς Εὐριπίδῃ θεοῖς τε πᾶσιν ἐχθρὰς) also activates common knowledge (of the members of the chorus of old men, and perhaps also the audience).

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present) than the demonstrative with -ί can be explained if we suppose that here, too, the demonstrative with -ί is used to activate shared knowledge; that is, what Strepsiades had said in lines 14–16 is not regarded any more as present but has already become part of the knowledge shared by Strepsiades and the audience, from where it can be activated again. As in the examples discussed above, also in this case the demonstrative is adnominal (cf. 26 τὸ κακόν), and the recognition is facilitated by further information (here the relative clause 26 ὅ μ’ ἀπολώλεκεν, which directly takes up line 16 ἐγὼ δ’ ἀπόλλυμαι). A similar case is Ar. Pax. 62–65. One of the two slaves hears Trygaios speaking to Zeus and complaining about the war (ὦ Ζεῦ, τί δρασείεις ποθ’ ἡμῶν τὸν λεών; | λήσεις σεαυτὸν τὰς πόλεις ἐκκοκκίσας), which the slave comments on as follows (64–65): τοῦτ’ ἐστι τουτὶ τὸ κακὸν αὔθ’ οὑγὼ ’λεγον· | τὸ γὰρ παράδειγμα τῶν μανιῶν ἀκούετε. As in the passage from the Clouds, τοῦτ’ seems to be a direct endophoric reference to what Trygaios has just said, while τουτὶ τὸ κακὸν αὔθ’ οὑγὼ ’λεγον activates what the slave has said just five lines before (56–59 δι’ ἡμέρας γὰρ εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν βλέπων | ὡδὶ κεχηνὼς λοιδορεῖται τῷ Διὶ | καί φησιν· “ὦ Ζεῦ, τί ποτε βουλεύει ποεῖν; | κατάθου τὸ κόρημα· μὴ ’κκορεῖ τὴν Ἑλλάδα”). Cf. also Ar. Ach. 41–42 οὐκ ἠγόρευον; τοῦτ’ ἐκεῖν’ οὑγὼ ’λεγον· | εἰς τὴν προεδρίαν πᾶς ἀνὴρ ὠστίζεται, where ἐκεῖνο is used by Dikaiopolis with the same function (activating what he has said in line 24–25) as τουτὶ τὸ κακόν here.15 Several of the examples mentioned by Konstantakos 2000, 133 as referring to somebody or something “only present in the speaker’s mind” can also be interpreted as recognitional (Ar. Eq. 1375 [already mentioned], Nub. 1427 σκέψαι δὲ τοὺς ἀλεκτρυόνας καὶ τἄλλα τὰ βοτὰ ταυτί [where ταῦτα would be metrically possible, cf. Dover 1968, 104], Dionys. com. fr. 2.36–38 K.-A. τουτονὶ δ’, ὃν ἀρτίως | ἔφης ἔχοντα πεῖραν ἥκειν πολυτελῶν, Men. Dys. 558–59 παραλήψομαι | τὸ μειράκιον τουτὶ γάρ, and perhaps also Nicoph. fr. 1 K.-A. ἅπερ ἐσθίει ταυτὶ τὰ πονήρ’ ὀρνίθια and Men. fr. 351.3 K.-A. οἷον τὰ † νησιωτικὰ ταυτὶ ξενύδρια). Possible examples of the recognitional use of a demonstrative pronoun without -ί are Ar. Ach. 705 τῷδε τῷ Κηφισοδήμῳ (Κηφισοδήμου Hamaker) τῷ λάλῳ ξυνηγόρῳ (where the demonstrative is interpreted differently by Sommerstein 1980, 192 as indicating “that the man in question occupied a fairly conspicuous place in the theatre audience”, and by Olson 2002, 253 as “showing only that this individual has been brought up in the discussion previously, i.e. in the oblique reference in 704”), Vesp. 325–26 τὸν Σέλλου | τοῦτον τὸν

15 On this and similar examples cf. López Eire 1996, 113–14.

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ψευδαμάμαξυν (cf. now Biles / Olson 2015, 193), 592 χὠ μέγας οὗτος Κολακώνυμος ἁσπιδαποβλής.

Some conclusions This brief overview shows that, in Greek comedy, not only are demonstratives with -ί not always exophoric, but that, even in cases where an exophoric reference is possible, it is not always the only possible way to explain the pronoun. This has consequences both for the interpretation of single passages in extant comedies (and even more in fragments, where it is usually more difficult to define the use of a demonstrative) and for our understanding of the deictic -ί as part of the comic language. For the latter purpose, the question has to be asked of what exactly the contribution of the -ί is in the three different uses discussed here. To answer this question, we would need not only statistical data on the relative frequency of demonstratives with and without -ί used in the same way, but also a detailed examination and comparison of the single passages. The only thing I can offer here are some preliminary hypotheses: 1. In the exophoric use, the main purpose of the -ί is as a direct reference to something visible (probably often accompanied by gesture). The same function can also be fulfilled by demonstratives without -ί, but the forms with -ί do so more explicitly and more strongly.16 2. In the endophoric use, the deictic -ί is used to draw particular attention, or add liveliness or emotional impact, to what is said.17 3. In the recognitional use, the -ί, in connection with additional information given, directs the attention of the listener more strongly to the shared knowledge that is activated, and invites the listener to call the person (or object) spoken about into his mind. A possible alternative view on 2. and 3. is the assumption that, by the deictic -ί, even things that cannot be seen (or cannot actually be seen in the present 16 Cf. Martín de Lucas 1996, 167–69. 17 According to Martín de Lucas 2011, 73, these cases are actually not anaphoric or kataphoric, but refer directly to something heard in the immediate context: “Dado que se recrea o se refiere una conversación, los deícticos con partícula -ί se dirigen a las palabras que flotan en el ambiente o apuntan a las que se van a pronunciar, como parte de su entorno sonoro. No se trata, pues, de anafóricos o catafóricos, sino de auténticos deícticos”. This is possible, although it does not seem likely to me that the pronouns in these cases lose their anaphoric or kataphoric force completely.

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moment) can be represented as if they were visible. This could, then, be seen as another aspect of the general tendency of comic language to concretise more abstract notions and to present things that are spoken about in a visually suggestive way. If this explanation were correct, we could speak here, in analogy to the metaphorical use of words, of a metaphorical use of a linguistic marker of visuality. But these (and other) aspects of the use of demonstrative pronouns in comedy deserve further detailed study. What already seems clear from the examples discussed here is that, at least in this case, the limits between visual and non-visual elements in the language of Greek comedy are sometimes far from clear-cut.

Bibliography Arnott, W. G. (1996), Alexis: The Fragments. A Commentary, Cambridge. Biles, Z. / Olson, S. D. (2015), Aristophanes, Wasps, Oxford. Diessel, H. (1999), Demonstratives. Form, Function, and Grammaticalization, Amsterdam. Dover, K. J. (1968), Aristophanes, Clouds, Oxford. Konstantakos, I. (2000), A Commentary on Eight Plays of Antiphanes, PhD Diss. University of Cambridge. López Eire, A. (1996), La lengua coloquial de la Comedia aristofánica, Murcia. Martín de Lucas, I. (1996), “Los demonstrativos con -ί epidíctica en Aristófanes”, in: Emerita 64, 157–171. Martín de Lucas, I. (2011), “La partícula deíctica -ί”, CFC (g) 21, 65–83. Olson, S.D. (2002), Aristophanes, Acharnians, Oxford. Orth, C. (2015), Nikochares – Xenophon (Fragmenta comica 9.3), Heidelberg. Sommerstein, A. H. (1980), Aristophanes, Acharnians, Warminster. Willi, A. (2002), “Languages on Stage: Aristophanic Language, Cultural History, and Athenian Identity”, in: A. Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy, Oxford, 111–149. Willi, A. (2003), The Languages of Aristophanes. Aspects of Linguistic Variation in Classical Attic Greek, Oxford.

Ekaterina Chugaeva Haskins

Reimagining Helen of Troy: Gorgias and Isocrates on Seeing and Being Seen One of rhetoric’s celebrated capacities is to set something vividly before the hearer’s or reader’s eyes. Working in tandem with the audience’s imagination, rhetoric can render visible what is absent and draw attention to what is overlooked. This capacity for visualization has long been recognized as a marker of a branch of rhetoric Aristotle called ἐπιδεικτικόν, or epideictic. Ἐπιδεικτικόν derives from ἐπίδειξις, which might be translated as “a showing forth” or “display”. According to Aristotle’s Rhetoric, epideictic is distinguished from the two “pragmatic” genres, δικανικόν and συμβουλευτικόν, by virtue of being addressed to an audience of spectators (θεωροί) rather than judges (δικαστές) (Rhetoric 1358a–b). Instead of accusation and defense or arguments for or against a certain course of action, ἐπιδεικτικόν is concerned with topics of praise and blame and relies on verbal amplification (αὔξησις) to attribute importance and beauty (μέγεθος καὶ κάλλος) to actions which are not disputed (Rhetoric 1368a). Aristotle’s classification was by no means a neutral exercise. His Rhetoric subsumed under the label of ἐπιδεικτικόν several existing genres, including the speech of praise (ἐγκώμιον), the festival speech (πανηγυρικός), and the Athenian funeral oration (λόγος ἐπιτάφιος). Aristotle “disciplined” these genres by amputating their specific ideological functions and by making the audience into observers of the orator’s skill. Aristotle’s construal of ἐπιδεικτικόν as (mere) display and amplification effectively denied such discourse any substantive role in the polis while equating rhetoric primarily with speeches delivered in pragmatic settings.1 This essay contests the narrow and depoliticized notion of epideictic inherited from Aristotle by rereading the encomia of Helen composed by the recognized masters of rhetorical display, Gorgias of Leontini and Isocrates. I argue that these display speeches not only model the art of showing through words but also illuminate the culture of display and spectatorship in which rhetoric emerged as a public practice and a distinct branch of learning. Drawing on revisionist historiography of rhetoric and philosophy as well as the growing body of scholarship on the “culture of viewing”2 in ancient Greece, I defend rhetorical ἐπίδειξις as a medium of cultural self-reflection in a classical polis. 1 Schiappa 1999, 185–206, Haskins 2004, 58–66. 2 Goldhill 1998, 108. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-014

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Gorgias and Isocrates were certainly not the only verbal artists to write speeches that Aristotle would later classify as belonging to the γένος ἐπιδεικτικόν, but because of their reputation as rhetorical educators they became the principal targets of attacks on rhetoric by Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum. Largely because of these attacks, they were reduced to empty and selfindulgent stylists incapable of serious theoretical thought. Plato famously portrayed Gorgias as a purveyor of political flattery who could not explain the principles of his art. Even though Isocrates’ model of rhetorical training persisted well into the Renaissance, his contributions to rhetorical knowledge were absorbed into Aristotle’s Rhetoric as fragmented examples of prose style. As the intellectual tide shifted in the late twentieth century – with language and rhetoric once again ascending to prominence in the humanities and qualitative social sciences – Gorgias and Isocrates were rehabilitated as important thinkers.3 In particular, Gorgias has been hailed for his contributions to psychology,4 epistemology,5 and aesthetic theory6 in addition to his innovations in prose style and argumentation.7 Isocrates’ non-Platonic notion of “philosophy” and his vision of political discourse received serious treatment 8 and his performance-based model of education has been reinterpreted as a worthy rival of Aristotle’s conceptualization of rhetoric.9 The recovery of Gorgias and Isocrates for the intellectual history in general and the history of rhetoric in particular is often guided by disciplinary interests of scholars who wish to establish alternative lineages for the academic fields of rhetoric and philosophy.10 However, such efforts tend to focus on particular figures as links in the chain of intellectual influence at the expense of a more culturally situated analysis. By contrast, I am more interested in a synchronic interpretation that highlights the connections between the rhetoric of Gorgias and Isocrates and their cultural milieu. Thanks to the multidisciplinary body of literature devoted to the visual culture of ancient Greece, it is possible to construct a more nuanced picture of epideictic rhetoric’s place among the

3 For the scholarship on the Sophists, see Unterstiner 1954, Kerferd 1981, Schiappa 1991, Jarratt 1991, J. Poulakos 1995. For recent work on Isocrates, see Too 1995, T. Poulakos 1997, Haskins 2004, Wareh 2012. 4 Segal 1962. 5 For example, Untersteiner 1954, Enos 1976, Walters 1994, Consigny 2001. 6 Halliwell 2011. 7 Schiappa 1996. 8 Too 1995, T. Poulakos 1997, Timmerman 1998, T. Poulakos and Depew 2004, Wareh 2012. 9 Haskins 2004, Haskins 2006. 10 For example, J. Poulakos 1983 and 1986b interprets Gorgias’ and Isocrates’ encomia of Helen as arguments in defense of rhetoric and rhetorical education, respectively.

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many modes of visual and verbal display. Therefore, before I attend to the texts of Gorgias and Isocrates, I will situate their respective encomia in classical Athenian culture of display and spectatorship.

Display Rhetoric in the City of Words and Spectacles Aristotle’s treatment of ἐπιδεικτικόν as a secondary genre has enabled the standard account of rhetoric as an art of practical civic discourse whose origins are tied to the emergence of democratic political institutions, particularly the law courts and political assemblies of ancient Greece and Rome. In the last few decades this standard account has been revised and even reversed. Jeffrey Walker’s Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity makes an especially compelling case for recognizing epideictic discourse “as the central and indeed fundamental mode of rhetoric in human culture”.11 Walker traces the beginnings of rhetorical epideictic discourse to the Greek poetic tradition, arguing that “what came to be called rhetoric was neither originally nor essentially an art of practical civic oratory – rather, that it originated from an expansion of the poetic/epideictic domain, from ‘song’ to ‘speech’ to discourse generally.”12 Along with challenging a strictly pragmatic conception of rhetoric, Walker asserts the civic value of epideictic discourse: “Epideictic” appears as that which shapes and cultivates the basic codes of value and belief by which a society or culture lives; it shapes ideologies and imageries with which, and by which, the individual members of a community identify themselves; and, perhaps most significantly, it shapes the fundamental grounds, the “deep” commitments and presuppositions, that will underlie and ultimately determine decision and debate in particular pragmatic forums.13

On this view, the traditional pragmatic concerns of rhetorical art – how to convince the jurors of someone’s guilt or innocence or how to persuade citizens to support or reject a policy proposal – are secondary to the more fundamental questions such as “what values do we hold in common?” Before the formalization of rhetorical epideictic in the fourth century BCE, questions of identity and value had been the prerogative of poets and drama-

11 Walker 2000, 10. 12 Walker 2000, ix. 13 Walker 2000, 9.

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tists whose “psychagogic, ‘soul-guiding’ eloquence” called audiences “to acts of judgment and ethical positioning”.14 With Gorgias and Isocrates, we see a development of this eloquence into a self-conscious art that offers its practitioners a way to increase their cultural capital in the eyes of their political community as well as a way for the community to reflect “on the processes of the city of words”.15 Gorgias and Isocrates clearly regard themselves as successors and rivals of poets and view their art as a medium of both entertainment and instruction. Gorgias in the Encomium of Helen examines the psychological impact of poeticized speech, and Isocrates, throughout his long career, champions discourses that are marked by the lofty subject matter and are “more akin to works composed in rhythm and set to music than to the speeches which are made in court” (Antidosis 46). Rhetorical ἐπιδείξεις of Gorgias and Isocrates are notable not only for their connection to the poetic tradition but also for their reflection on a variety of display practices in ancient Greece in general and Athens in particular. Athens was the city of words but it was also the city of spectacles. In addition to the courts and the Assembly, orators showed off their artistry in many civic and religious contexts and alongside other verbal, physical, and visual displays. These comprised participatory rituals such as processions as well as a variety of contests such as recitations of Homeric epics, horse and foot races, wrestling, contests of manly beauty (εὐανδρία), and dramatic competitions.16 The festivals of the Panathenaia, the Great Dionysia, and the Lenaia each lasted several days and provided a stage for many individual and collective performances in front of thousands of spectators. It is in fact Isocrates who furnishes one of the most vivid portraits of the festival culture in classical Athens. In his pamphlet Panegyricus written for circulation at the Olympic festival in 380 BCE, Isocrates notes the prominence of spectacles (θεάματα) in Athenian public life. These festivals encompassed athletic competitions as well as contests of “words and wisdom and all the other arts” (45). Isocrates remarks that these competitive events profit both ordinary citizens and those who possess superior gifts, for “the latter have the opportunity to display (ἐπιδείξασθαι) their prowess, the former to behold (θεάσασθαι) these contending against each other” (44). Both contestants and their audiences, he points out, are motivated by the love of honor (φιλοτιμία). The relationship between those who display their prowess – whether physical,

14 Walker 2000, ix. 15 Goldhill 1999, 3. 16 On processions, see Burkert 1985; on agon as a term for a variety of contests, see Goldhill 1999; on euandria, see Crowther 1985.

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artistic, or intellectual – and their audiences is reciprocal, for, while the former seek recognition, the latter act as judges of excellence. Festivals and contests nurture the pursuit of distinction in the eyes of one’s fellow citizens and validate the vital role of spectatorship in the cultivation of the “basic codes of value and belief” by which the polis lived. The reciprocity of ἐπίδειξις and spectatorship was a cornerstone of Athenian democratic ideology, which encouraged the pursuit of honor as long as it benefitted the polis. Through law and custom, Athenian democracy put pressure on its elites to support cultural events so that all citizens, regardless of wealth, could participate as spectators. To be a spectator was “a right and duty of the Athenian citizen, performed in the institutions of the state and institutionally supported by financial and legal means”.17 Citizen-spectators exercised their duty not only as consumers of visual displays but also as arbiters of aesthetic choices made by artists commissioned by the polis. Members of the Assembly, the boulē, or a commission to represent the demos had a say about “the particular iconographic forms to be used” in works of public art, for example “which pattern should be used in order to weave the Gigantomachy on the peplos offered to Athena at the Panathenaic festival”.18 Through their participation in decision-making concerning public art as well as their viewing of athletic and theatrical competitions, Athenians developed “affective commitment to normative representations of the good citizen”.19 The festive events were thus no mere sideshow to the democratic institutions of the court and the Assembly. Indeed, “it was the festival calendar in relation to which the political calendar was drawn up: each lunar moon was given the name associated with a particular festival rite, thereby yielding the Athenian calendar”.20 Collectively, these forms of public display furnished opportunities for “the performance of citizenship”21 as well as shaped and maintained the codes of civic ideology. Not incidentally, epideictic rhetoric, with its focus on matters of value and belief, became one of the chief avenues for discussing the relationship between performance (including speechmaking) and spectatorship. According to ancient biographers, Gorgias of Leontini was conspicuous at the festivals of the Greeks and though he was not an Athenian, he was invited to deliver a funeral oration for the war dead in Athens, one of the greatest

17 18 19 20 21

Goldhill 1999, 6–7. Tanner 2000, 191. Tanner 2000, 203. Hawhee 2004, 166. Goldhill 1999, 23.

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honors the city could bestow on a public figure. Sent as an ambassador of Leontini to Athens in 427 BCE, Gorgias visited the city frequently afterwards and won acclaim for his verbal virtuosity and political acumen. Prized for his extemporaneous and stylistically ornate oratory, Gorgias was a consummate performer who endeavored to speak on any subject suggested by his audience. At the same time, depending on the occasion, he could offer serious counsel on political matters. In his Olympic Speech, “seeing Greece involved in civil dissension”, Gorgias “became a counselor of concord to her inhabitants, turning their attention against the barbarians and persuading them to regard as prizes to be won by their arms, not each other’s cities, but the territory of the barbarians”.22 Although most festivals were established and practiced as religious rites and therefore prescribed religious and civic piety, they were also “venues in which participants would expect and welcome parody, novel wordplay, and theatrical display”.23 For example, the Great Dionysia, the civic festival during which Athens celebrated its military power and paraded orphans of war in military dress, was also an occasion for subversive dramatic performances. Tragedy and comedy that followed the festival’s ritual sacrifices and processions seemed “to question, examine, and often subvert the language of the city’s order”.24 The festival thus simultaneously extolled the citizens’ commitment to an ideal of individual sacrifice and egalitarian cooperation for the benefit of the polis and invited them to contemplate fictional scenarios that challenged that ideal. Little is known about the circumstances in which Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen was delivered beyond the fact that it was written in the Attic dialect in the last quarter of the fifth century BCE. Yet it is likely that under the guise of an encomium for a legendary Spartan queen the text enacts a transgressive examination of Athenian democratic values. Gorgias goes after one of the basic assumptions that spectacle-loving Athenians held in common: that to be a spectator in any setting, pragmatic or festive, was both a right and a civic responsibility. “To be in an audience”, contends Goldhill, “was not just a thread in the city’s social fabric, it was a fundamental political act. To sit as an evaluating, judging spectator was to participate as a political subject”.25 Gorgias implicitly questions this assumption by depicting the spectator as a recipient

22 Philostratus 1972, 31. 23 Consigny 2001, 167. 24 Goldhill 1987, 68. See also Goldhill 1990, Winkler and Zeitlin 1990, and Csapo and Slater 1995. 25 Goldhill 2000, 166.

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of words and spectacles whose powers of discernment are no match for the overwhelming powers of persuasion. Whether or not Gorgias actually subscribed to this position, his display performed a cultural critique similar to that of tragic and comic playwrights and demonstrated that “epideictic is not limited to reinforcement of existing beliefs and ideologies – it can also work to challenge or transform conventional beliefs”.26 As distinct from Gorgias, his student and prominent fourth-century Athenian intellectual and educator Isocrates left behind a voluminous body of work that was circulated among the reading public in Athens and beyond. Although ancient biographers and some modern commentators explain Isocrates’ reliance on the literary medium by his physical ineptitude as an orator,27 his ipsissima verba, on which traditional accounts are based, are part of a carefully crafted public persona.28 As I have argued elsewhere, “Isocrates engaged in writing not only to compensate for his bodily weakness or lack of courage; he pursued writing with a dual goal of shifting the focus of contemporary rhetorical practices from their traditional sites to a broader political forum and crafting his own distinct civic identity”.29 Isocrates’ literary perspective and his frequent written attacks on demagogues in the assembly and sycophants in law courts align him with other elite critics of Athenian democracy, including his arch-rival Plato. However, Plato opposes Athenian democratic institutions on epistemological and moral grounds and harbors a deep distrust of the culture of performance and spectatorship. He shows low regard for “the lovers of sights and sounds” (Republic 476a–b) and defines rhetoric as a mere “knack” for gratifying audiences gained through experience (Gorgias 465a). Plato’s Menexenus, in which Socrates performs a parody of the Athenian funeral oration for the benefit of his student, lampoons the impact of such orations on regular Athenians: Every time I listen fascinated I am exalted and imagine myself to have become at once taller and nobler and more handsome […] And this majestic feeling remains with me for over three days: so persistently does the speech and voice of the orator ring in my ears that it is scarcely on the fourth or fifth day that I recover myself and remember that I really am here on earth, whereas till then I almost imagined myself to be living in the islands of the Blessed. (235C)

Plato depicts the honor bestowed on the war dead and the audience as political ingratiation that corrupts the listener. In keeping with his generally low opin26 27 28 29

Walker 2000, 10. For example, Jaeger 1971. Too 1995. Haskins 2004, 16.

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ion of rhetoric, this account of the influence of performed funeral orations on ordinary citizens paints speakers as flatterers and audiences as their dupes.30 If Plato satirizes oratorical display as dangerous social flattery, Isocrates defends the political value of spectacular oratory. It is not the power of the spoken word that he questions, but the unrestrained pursuit of political or private gain to the detriment of the polis. For Isocrates, democratic spectatorship functions as a check against the unbridled pursuit of power and distinction. Furthermore, acts of seeing and being seen in public promote not only competition but also cooperation. Indeed, they constitute the basis of reciprocity that allows citizens, as Isocrates puts it, “to feel more kindly (εὐμενεστέρως) towards each other for the future” (Panegyricus 43). This is why his ideal of oratory is distinct from narrowly pragmatic speeches delivered in the Assembly and the courts – the sites where rhetoric achieves only short-term goals at the expense of larger political self-awareness. Isocrates therefore singles out as the most politically beneficial the oratory that is stylistically akin to poetry and “deals with greatest affairs and, while best displaying the ability of those who speak, brings most profit to those who hear” (Antidosis 45–50, Panegyricus 3). Gorgias and Isocrates emphasize the centrality of display in the city of words and spectacles. Their respective versions of the Helen myth articulate and examine the values and relationships enacted through spectacle. The story of Helen’s flight to Troy, well known to Greek audiences from rhapsodic recitations of Homer, lyric and dramatic performances, and visual arts, was superbly suited for the exploration of persuasion through speech and seduction through sight.31 Each author stitches a different garment out of the popular Homeric material, however. For Gorgias, Helen stands in for the audience; he stylizes his examination of the audience’s vulnerability to – and complicity in – persuasion by pretending to defend Helen in an imaginary court case. Isocrates, for his part, retells the story of Helen’s legendary admirers to investigate the relationship between beauty, spectatorship, and civic virtue.

Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen: a Theater of the Soul Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen is a tantalizingly rich text: it is at once a stylistically ostentatious performance piece, an exercise in legal argumentation under

30 See Haskins 2005 for a comparison of Plato’s Menexenus and Isocrates’ Panegyricus. 31 On depictions of Helen from Homer to Isocrates, see Blondell 2013.

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the guise of a speech of praise, and a far-reaching reflection on the powers and dangers of verbal and visual persuasion. In what follows, I am particularly interested in the resonances between the text’s strategies of appeal and late fifth-century practices of performance and spectatorship. A self-consciously competitive and playful display, Gorgias’ reworking of the traditional story of Helen’s departure for Troy tugs at many cultural strings simultaneously. Gorgias thereby invites audiences to reexamine their assumptions about ingrained cultural truths, to consider the power of logos in its many guises, and to acknowledge the role of the senses in persuasion and self-persuasion. Announcing his intention to free reviled Helen from blame, Gorgias fashions a protean persona – part performer in a contest, part litigant in a court of law. He juxtaposes rhetorical conventions of an encomium (with its attendant expectations of praise and lofty diction) with appeals typical of a court speech (promise to prove the truth of the matter through reasoned argument). As an encomiast, Gorgias issues a challenge to the poetic tradition – epic rhapsodes, lyric poets, and dramatists – and promises to beat the inspired poets at their own game. In this way he encourages the audience to summon their experience of these genres and to judge the speaker’s art according to criteria of excellence associated with skilled oral performances – such as stylistic and thematic novelty and dramatic delivery. The opening line introduces κόσμος (l) (“the most beautiful condition”) as the criterion of evaluation for a number of things, ranging from cities to bodies to speeches. Although Gorgias is working in a verbal medium, this line suggests a variety of spectator experiences with which his audience members must be familiar, including εὐανδρία, male beauty contests. Broadening the competitive arena beyond a particular genre of oratory, Gorgias situates his performance in the cultural economy of agonistic display. A performance is judged as possessing κόσμος in proportion to its capacity to bring pleasure (τέρψις) to the spectator – hence Gorgias’ claim that restatement of familiar narratives brings no delight (5). Novel treatment itself is not sufficient to captivate the audience, however. To compete with rhapsodes and dramatists, Gorgias relies on poeticized utterance and, “in fact, transfers the emotive devices and effects of poetry to his own prose”.32 Many recognize the musical quality of Gorgias’ prose.33 “When read aloud, it recalls a piece of music”, notes Bromley Smith, “for it has cadences, tonal effects, diminuendos and crescendos of a sonata”.34 Indeed, Gorgias’s description of “the smallest

32 Segal 1972, 127. 33 For example, Schiappa 1991, Hawhee 2004. 34 Smith 1921, 350.

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and most invisible body” of speech indicates the power of rhythmic utterance to hypnotize listeners, to send ripples of pleasure through their bodies. At the same time, Gorgias promises to break the mythopoetic spell by introducing λογισμός (reasoning) into his account (2). After the initial narration in praise of Helen’s beauty, ancestry, and erotic allure, he leaves behind encomiastic conventions to stage a court-like defense of Helen’s innocence. Gorgias marshals four possible explanations of Helen’s journey to Troy: fate (τύχη) and necessity (ἀνάγκη), violence (βία), persuasion by speech (λόγος), and erotic (self)-persuasion by sight (ὄψις). Given the brevity with which Gorgias treats the first two causes of Helen’s flight to Troy and his more extensive focus on the last two, it is evident that the author is more concerned with exposing human psyche’s susceptibility to verbal and visual persuasion than with disputing the allegedly univocal testimony of poets against Helen. As Gorgias’ “client”, Helen steps down from her pedestal as a perennial object of others’ erotic gaze and becomes a mortal whose situation illustrates what is likely to happen to most humans when they face the same set of circumstances. The audience is thus urged to scrutinize the received cultural wisdom – and its own participation in its perpetuation – according to an argument from probability. Whereas Gorgias challenges the poetic legacy through his use of λογισμός, he still relies on the imagery of traditional performance and plastic arts to describe the workings of λόγος and ὄψις. By pronouncing λόγος a great ruler (δυνάστης μέγας) that accomplishes most divine deeds (8), Gorgias employs the device of personification common in epic and drama. By describing the power of speech to create and banish emotions (joy, sorrow, fear, courage, pity, longing, and pleasure), he conjures the audience’s own reaction to epic recitations and tragic drama. Spectators of performed epic and drama are often overcome with fear and tearful pity and sorrowful longing, Gorgias points out, and their psyche (ψυχή) experiences its own suffering at the good and ill fortune of other people’s doings (9). Given this strong impression stamped on the psyche of any recipient by persuasive λόγοι, how can Helen be blamed? A proper emotion in response to this depiction of Helen’s deception through speech should be pity, insists Gorgias (7). As an argumentative strategy in a court of law, the juxtaposition of the audience’s experience of emotions in other performative contexts and the claim of Helen’s deception through speech at first appears paradoxical. As a recognized dramatic effect, deception (ἀπάτη) does not have the same negative meaning as an outright lie or misrepresentation of reality. As Thomas Rosenmeyer (1955) argues, by the time of Aeschylus, ἀπάτη was associated with artful illusionism. The “dynastic” power of logos therefore resides in its capacity to create and sustain an emotionally absorbing experience in the audience. In

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this scenario, the more powerful the “deception”, the greater the pleasure it produces. On the other hand, Gorgias is asking the audience to regard Helen as a victim of deception rather than a subject of pleasure and to imagine themselves as judges of her guilt or innocence. But this implies that Gorgias’ listeners may be similarly bamboozled by his clever speech and not merely entertained by it. It is possible that the author’s depiction of Helen’s victimhood would not undermine his (male) audience’s self-regard and their capacity to discriminate between proper artistic effects and verbal trickery. Ruby Blondell, for example, contends that Gorgias’ apologia relies on conventional gender ideology according to which “weaker” women are led by “stronger” men. Moreover, thanks to the grammatical gender of λόγος as masculine and of ψυχή as feminine he can equate the active power of speech with the male and the passive with the female.35 Gorgias thereby exonerates a mute client who is no more than a passive object. It may also be the case that Gorgias’ intended audience identifies with those who wield persuasive λόγοι rather than with the vulnerability of their recipients. Helen’s seduction by speech as depicted by Gorgias, on this view, “amounts to rhetorical pornography in that it offers to those who are so inclined the vicarious pleasure of imagining themselves as Paris to Helen”.36 While I agree that Gorgias exploits conventional cultural beliefs about gender and constructs his ideal auditor as a connoisseur of rhetorical techniques, I contend that the spectacle staged by Encomium of Helen implicates his listeners as both subjects and objects of persuasion. The explanation of Helen’s voyage to Troy serves as a mise-en-scène of a demonstration that transports the audience inside the human psyche as it comes into contact with words and images. It is this theater of the soul that takes the spotlight in the sections on the powers of λόγος (8–14) and ὄψις (15–19). Gorgias demonstrates that persuasion works both externally and internally – that “the finest and most invisible body” of λόγος affects the listener by “merging with opinion of the soul” (10). Because humans are not omniscient and their memory as well as their judgment of present and future are imperfect, “most men take opinion as counselor to their soul” (11). The merging of errors of the soul (ψυχῆς ἁμαρτήματα) with deceptions of opinion (δόξης ἀπατήματα) is humanity’s lot, suggests Gorgias’ rhyming phrase. And it is this default predisposition that makes possible both the loftier deception of tragedy and the more ethically suspect attempts at persuasion by astronomers, logicians, and

35 Blondell 2013, 172. See also Schaeffer 1998 on the subordination of Helen’s “feminine” image to Gorgias’ “masculine” logos. 36 Pratt 2015, 175.

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philosophers. This latter group, which presumably includes Gorgias himself, excels at “substituting opinion for opinion” to please and persuade crowds of onlookers (13). Regardless of their antiquity or cultural prestige, all of these types of discourses produce effects comparable to the influence of drugs on the body: “For just as different drugs dispel different secretions from the body, and some bring an end to disease and others to life, so also in the case of speeches, some distress, others delight, some cause fear, others make the hearers bold, and some drug and bewitch the soul with a kind of evil persuasion” (14). Rather than merely witnessing effects of persuasion on a third party (Helen), Gorgias’s listeners are made observers of themselves. The presentation of the last reason for Helen’s innocence – her seduction through vision (ὄψις) – similarly positions the audience as spectators of their own habits of viewing. Thus Helen’s falling for Paris on account of his beauty serves as a pretext to explore the commonality between persuasive λόγοι and objects of vision. Gorgias sets the stage for the comparison in an earlier passage on the powers of persuasion: persuasion (πειθώ), he claims, “stamps the soul as it wishes,” and persuasive speeches render incredible and unclear things plausible to the “eyes of opinion” (τοῖς τῆς δόξης ὄμμασιν) (13). Sight stamps the psyche with images (εἰκόνας) of objects seen, and these images, like the imprint left by speech, have staying power (17). Gorgias draws his most vivid illustration from the realm of warfare: men fleeing in terror at the sight of the enemy’s shining armor. The fear produced by sight is powerful enough to expel both previous moral commitments and considerations of advantage. This example suggests that sight can drive out the impressions and beliefs created by speeches, such as appeals to manly virtues and benefits of victory common in political oratory and battlefield exhortation. Here, as in the preceding passage on the influence of artful deception on a great crowd (13), the author gestures toward mass psychology. The powers of logos and vision are amplified when experienced by many spectators together – which accurately reflects the cultural situation of Gorgias’s audience. Gorgias’s somewhat more abstract references to manufactured visual phenomena evoke the audience’s familiarity with works of public art – statues of human figures, cult images, and paintings (18). The subject matter of these works is left unspecified, but it is likely that Gorgias has in mind the rich visual milieu of the late fifth century Athens.37 Dramatic performances, too, belong to this “culture of viewing” since they were multimedia spectacles that incor-

37 See Castriota 1992 on Athenian public programs of painting and sculpture in the fifth century BCE.

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porated painting and costumes.38 It is therefore not surprising that Gorgias describes visual pleasures in terms similar to the effects of performed poetry and drama: “It is natural for the sight to grieve for some things and to long for others, and much love and desire for many objects and figures is engraved in many men” (54). Public statuary and public spectacles featuring live bodies are vehicles of mass seduction through sight. The vocabulary of plastic arts also enables Gorgias to direct the audience’s gaze inward and to visualize the elusive materiality of λόγος. He uses forms of the verb τύπτω (to mold) to convey how both speech and visible objects stamp the soul (13, 15). Τύπος words designate objects wrought of metal or stone, such as statues and reliefs, and imply an act of artistic shaping.39 Words and images act similarly to molds used to manufacture statues – they shape or reshape the soul’s cognitive and emotional disposition. The psychosomatic work of persuasion results in self-deception the soul fabricates under the influence of words and images. Gorgias thereby urges his listeners to grant λόγος the same solidity and reality as an artistic medium that they already attribute to finely crafted visual artifacts. Of course, speeches and visual artifacts are themselves products of artistic technique employed by speakers and artists. Yet Gorgias’ treatment of this aspect of persuasion appears contradictory. On the one hand, his opening statement asserts that the most beautiful condition (κόσμος) of speech is truth (ἀλήθεια) as he promises to remove blame from Helen by showing the truth (δείξας τἀληθὲς, 2). On the other hand, he draws attention to the art (τέχνη) of speech not by celebrating it (the way he exalts λόγος in general) but by referring to a “false logos” that is molded (πλάσαντες) (11) and to speeches “written with art but not spoken with truth” (τέχνῃ γραφείς, ουκ αληθείᾳ λεχθείς) (13). How should Gorgias’ listeners interpret this discrepancy? Gorgias provides a clue to this riddle in his last line – he pronounces his written composition a παίγνιον (21), a plaything. The label παίγνιον is polysemous – it can be taken as a generic designation of the composition as a paradoxical encomium, but it can also refer to the speech’s own materiality as an artistic product and indicate the general quality of playfulness. Scott Consigny argues that by calling his speech a παίγνιον, Gorgias is confirming the parodic intention of its title, “for in praising the reviled Helen of Troy, Gorgias in effect announces his work as a parodic encomium” and presents it as “akin to […] works that stand as playful doubles of serious encomia”.40 On this view,

38 See especially Zeitlin 1995. 39 Steiner 2001. 40 Consigny 2001, 174.

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the opening statement about “truth” is a nod to a generic convention that the audience would expect the author to subvert later. The pleasure to be derived from such a performance rests on one’s existing knowledge of genres and rhetorical techniques. Neither a proper encomium nor a proper court speech, Encomium of Helen is “a hybrid prose-poem” that showcases its author’s argumentative and stylistic skill for the benefit of discerning spectators.41 At the very minimum, παίγνιον acts as a promise of an intellectual game that reveals its rules in the act of their subversion.42 The sense of παίγνιον as a product of fine craftsmanship adds another dimension to the composition’s status as a parodic encomium. As Deborah Steiner explains, A physical object, a plaything or toy such as a craftsman might fashion, the speech has by its close acquired the fixity that logos’ supremely light and mobile body (8) earlier eschewed. No less tellingly, a paignion also signifies the darling in whom the lover takes delight, endowing the speech with seductive qualities […] Gorgias implies that he, like Helen, is not only master artist and generator of the images to which others succumb, but a body affected in turn. He, too, must respond to the pleasure and (sexual) charm that his and other logoi exercise, and in so doing offer himself as exemplar for those who play audience to his text.43

Instead of asserting the author’s rhetorical omnipotence, the label παίγνιον signals his ambivalence about the powers of λόγος and ὄψις. Rather than construct its audience only as passive victims of persuasion or as active (but amoral) practitioners of rhetorical techniques, the speech provides the audience the pleasure of oscillating between subject and object positions. Finally, παίγνιον connotes the freedom from concerns of daily life, which allows for leisurely contemplation.44 Although Encomium of Helen does showcase techniques of legal argumentation, it participates in a larger cultural and intellectual conversation about the influence of language and vision on human motivation and agency. Gorgias’ playful recasting of the Helen story, notes Segal, “bears some resemblance to the later Euripidean techniques of treating mythological material in a ‘modern’ rationalistic and psychological manner, for the discussion of theoretical ethical or social problems”.45 The composition’s riddles and paradoxes, then, are not a sign of the author’s theoretical

41 42 43 44 45

Halliwell 2011, 284. Pratt 2015. Steiner 2001, 287–88. On the connection between παίγνιον and leisured pursuits, see Ford 2002. Segal 1962, 101.

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confusion or philosophical nihilism. Rather, they are a way to stimulate critical reflection on the τύποι different discourses leave on the soul. The culturally ingrained opposition between truth (ἀλήθεια) and opinion (δόξα) appears as such a τύπος. I contend that Gorgias is not juxtaposing δόξα, the opinions crafted by speakers and received by the audience, with the “truth of the phenomenal world”46 or the truth of idealist philosophy of Plato’s sort. He is pointing out instead a shift from orally reinforced, univocal cultural knowledge to the multiplicity of truths spawned by the proliferation of literate practitioners of persuasion in the second half of the fifth century. In Gorgias’ usage, ἀλήθεια likely refers to the truth of the mythopoetic kind – that which remains alive in cultural memory and thus saved from oblivion (λήθη) through multiple acts of repetition.47 Ἀλήθεια would include both “facts” of cultural memory and normative expectations about what is and is not morally appropriate and beautiful.48 Δόξα, by contrast, indicates a more fleeting cognitive and emotional disposition that can be swiftly, but not permanently, replaced through persuasive speeches or visual impressions. The Helen suggests that the difference between the two is a difference of degree, not kind. Both ἀλήθεια and δόξα are produced by the psychosocial “stamping” of the soul, except ἀλήθεια possesses a greater measure of permanence and esteem thanks to the work of cultural reproduction performed by poetry, drama, and public visual arts. In the Athenian context of the last quarter of the fifth century, Gorgias’ playful questioning of the mythopoetic tradition models a critical stance towards the ongoing political mythopoesis of Athenian democracy. The myth of Athens as the savior of Hellas, which emerged in Aeschylus’ Persae (472 BCE) and was echoed throughout classical Athenian funeral orations and built environment, produced its own “spell of ideality”.49 As an internalized political subjectivity, this spell gave dignity to ordinary citizens as spectators of cultural and political contests but also rendered them vulnerable to elites who exploited the culturally embedded attitudes of the demos by “substituting opinion for opinion” (13). The broader cultural contemplation the Helen provokes is therefore wrought with political implications. Goldhill argues that “Gorgias threatens the whole logic of democratic subjectivity by asserting that the citizen is the victim, the passive experiencer of words and sights, and not the active regulating citi-

46 Segal 1962, 112–114. 47 Bakker 1993, 15. 48 Halliwell 2011 interprets Gorgias’ claim to show the truth as an appeal to “normative correctness”. 49 Loraux 1986, 263. See Castriota 1992 on the ideological role of public statuary in Athens.

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zen of democratic ideology”.50 As spectators in Gorgias’ theater of the soul, his listeners are brought face-to-face with their own culturally constructed gaze as active members of the political community only to realize that they have been had. Perhaps the designation παίγνιον, by connoting the independence of this experimental theater from pragmatic concerns and political consequences, is the greatest ἀπάτη Gorgias’s speech produces.

Isocrates’ Helen: Gazing at Beauty, Praising Virtue If Gorgias reinterprets the story of Helen to dramatize human susceptibility to persuasion, Isocrates casts her as a shining emblem of beauty that inspires not only erotic passion but also virtuous deeds of exceptional men. Gorgias’ exploration of the human psyche’s bent toward error and its erotic susceptibility to the medico-magical imprint of words and images casts doubt upon citizen-spectators’ ability to be impartial and rational judges. For Isocrates, human motivation is also rooted in desire, but his Helen shows how erotic desire is alchemized into a desire for civic excellence and usefulness to one’s political community. Like many of Isocrates’ educational and political pamphlets, Helen is both a self-referential display of the author’s verbal prowess and a reconsideration of Greek cultural heritage in light of present concerns. Before he gets to the topic of his pamphlet, Isocrates engages in competitive self-assertion vis-à-vis his rivals and predecessors. The purpose of this vituperative introduction is two-fold: on the one hand, Isocrates presents himself as “master competitor in a contest in which he is surrounded by opponents”;51 on the other, he advertises his superior rhetorical skill and preemptively defends his educational program as the most beneficial for the polis.52 As any master competitor, Isocrates is motivated by the love of honor, and his criticisms of “useless” intellectual pursuits are meant to highlight the usefulness – and attractiveness – of his own brand of discursive training. Tellingly, Isocrates uses an analogy with athletic contests, arguing that those who

50 Goldhill 2000, 173. 51 Ober 2004, 26. 52 Because of the lack of obvious connection between the introduction of the Helen and the rest of the encomium, noticed by Aristotle, scholars have argued about the text’s coherence and purpose. See Kennedy 1958, Heilbrun 1977, J. Poulakos 1983, and Papillon 1996.

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discourse on paradoxical topics (such as praising the life of beggars and exiles) resemble “someone who pretends to be the best athlete but enters an arena where no one else cares to compete” (Helen 10). In contrast with these intellectual weaklings whose claim to fame comes from finding clever things to say about trivial subjects, Isocrates sets his bar high and invokes Gorgias’ discourse on Helen as a worthy opponent as he chose to write about a woman who surpassed all others in birth, beauty, and reputation (14). Even Gorgias, however, committed a small inadvertence by violating generic propriety and speaking in defense of Helen while claiming to have written an encomium (14). Isocrates thus offers his demonstration both as a proof of his superior artistry and a generically appropriate encomium.53 Isocrates claims to try to speak of “the same woman, leaving aside everything that others have said” (15), stressing originality within the constraints of an encomium. Despite his claim of novelty, however, Isocrates seems to wrap himself in the mantle of Homer by avoiding visual details in his description of Helen and revealing the awesome power of her beauty through the reaction of others. Isocrates’ retelling of the legend is nevertheless original in the way Helen comes to stand in for beauty in general as both a motivating force in human affairs and a mark of excellence. In its portrayal of virtuous actions motivated by Helen’s beauty, the composition asserts the value of gazing at beauty as a precondition for performing praiseworthy actions. In keeping with the encomiastic convention, Isocrates begins by praising Helen’s divine origin, noting Zeus’ paternal affection for her in the form of the gift of beauty. In a passage structured through a series of antitheses, he highlights the superiority of beauty to the gift of strength Zeus bestowed on Heracles. Beauty, he remarks, “naturally rules even might itself” (16–17). Helen’s gift of beauty made her a magnet for everyone’s eyes, the quality conveyed by the adjective περίβλεπτος, “looked at from all sides, admired by all observers” (17). As such a magnet, she also became a prize over which many would fight (περιμάχετος) (17). Although these adjectives describe Helen’s allure and foreshadow her role as a casus belli of the Trojan War, they also invoke the culture of spectatorship in which performers compete for honor and admiration and spectators judge their excellence. After addressing the topic of Helen’s divine origin, however, Isocrates changes the narrative vantage point and reveals Helen’s superior value by extolling the quality of actions of famous men who were inspired by her beauty. This principle of exposition follows the logic of appraisal that governs the cir-

53 See J. Poulakos 1986a on Gorgias’ and Isocrates’ use of encomium.

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culation of honor: we are more likely to believe those judges who are themselves held in high esteem. “For those who wish to praise Helen”, says Isocrates, “I think that the strongest basis for argument will be if we can demonstrate that those who loved (ἀγαπήσαντας) and admired (θαυμάσαντας) her were themselves more admirable (θαυμαστοτέρους) than the rest” (22). These judges of Helen’s beauty are themselves objects of admiration and praise. By implication, they too possess the quality of περίβλεπτος that is ascribed to her. Theseus, the legendary founder of Athens, heads the lineup of Helen’s admirers. Isocrates justifies his disproportionate attention to him by claiming that Theseus is the most trustworthy witness (μάρτυς) and the most competent judge (κριτής) of Helen’s attributes (38). A model of virtue (ἀρέτη), on seeing the young Helen, he is overcome by his desire for intimacy with her. Although Theseus’ abduction of underage Helen from her home may be seen as pure erotic madness, his action stems from something like level-headed deliberation: he “believed that life was not worth living unless he could have familiarity with her” (18). As Blondell explains, “the connotations of the verb ‘believe’ (hēgeomai) are more cognitive than erotic” and the hero’s desire for Helen is conveyed by the term οἰκειότης, a “nonsexual word with broad application”.54 Similar to other Helen’s suitors whose feelings for her are described by nonsexual words ἀγάπη (esteem) and θαῦμα (wonder), Theseus’ attraction to Helen is stripped of sexual eroticism. In Isocrates’ narrative, Theseus displays his virtue by choosing to act in ways beneficial to the Greeks and his native land. Like Helen’s divine beauty, Theseus’ virtues are brought into sharper relief through a contrast with Heracles. Isocrates again conjures the spirit of contest by referring to the two heroes as “champions (ἀθληταί) of human life” (23). While Heracles distinguished himself by labors that were dangerous to himself but of little use to humanity, those of Theseus were “more useful, especially for the Greeks” (24). Heracles and Theseus epitomize, respectively, aristocratic and democratic values: the former seeking personal glory while the latter securing the goodwill of his fellow citizens. In keeping with the athletic analogy, Isocrates uses the verb ἐπεδείξατο (displayed) to underscore Theseus’ performance as a military and civic leader (31). Among Theseus’ exploits he singles out the unification of Attic settlements into a polis and the creation of protodemocratic institutions. Importantly, “having freed the souls (τὰς ψυχάς) of his fellow citizens”, Theseus “established for them an equitable rivalry, based on merit” (ἐξ ἴσου τὴν ἄμιλλαν αὐτοῖς περὶ τῆς ἀρετῆς ἐποίησε) (35). One of The-

54 Blondell 2013, 231.

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seus’ major contributions to humanity is the institution of competition for honor that is bestowed by free-thinking compatriots. In return, Theseus was beloved by his people (ἀγαπώμενος). The hero who fell in love with Helen is shown to be worthy of love and admiration himself. By comparison, Helen’s cuckolded Spartan husband Menelaos remains unnamed until much later in the narrative, and instead Isocrates describes the collective opinion of Helen’s noble Greek suitors that she would become an object of armed contention (περιμάχητος) (40). These powerful men, reasoning that whoever becomes Helen’s husband would likely require assistance should she be taken from him, pledge allegiance to one another. The individual erotic passion yields to martial solidarity among Greek leaders. Here, Isocrates’ interpretation of the Homeric material contrasts with the Homeric view of the Trojan War and reflects a distinctly democratic attitude to martial valor which became normative in fifth-century Athens. Instead of the individualistic pursuit of glory by the strongest individuals, the Greeks subscribe to the value of group cooperation of the hoplite phalanx, which fights, wins, and dies as a group.55 These heroes’ virtue consists in setting aside their individual desire and joining arms to fight for Helen as a glorious symbol of Greek culture. Indeed, Isocrates draws attention to the resonances between Ἑλένης (Helen), Ἕλληνες (the Greeks), and Ἑλλάδος (Greece) (49) to suggest that Helen inspires collective desire (ἔρως) for military hardships in the service of a Panhellenic ideal (52). In keeping with the narrative’s logic, even Helen’s Trojan seducer is said to exhibit honorable motivation. Isocrates goes to great lengths to establish Paris’ credentials as a discerning judge of Helen’s beauty. Because Paris was chosen by goddesses as an arbiter in their own beauty contest, Isocrates reasons, “only a mortal man of greatly superior intelligence could have received such honor as to become a judge of immortals” (47). Although Paris is overwhelmed by the sight of deities, his choice of Aphrodite and her prize, Helen, is shown to be a product of careful deliberation. Again, as in the case of Theseus, Paris’ choice of living with Helen is rendered by a non-sexual word (τὴν οἰκειότητα) that connotes familiarity and domesticity (42). Paris wants Helen not so much for pleasure (πρὸς τὰς ἡδονας) – although this would be many wise men’s choice, interjects Isocrates – but for her divine lineage, her nobility of birth (εὐγένεια) (42–44). Seeking to become Zeus’ son by marriage is a sensible aspiration for an aristocrat, as nobility of birth, unlike other more fleeting blessings, “remains in the same family forever” (44). Helen’s beauty acts as a magnet for honor-seeking men, and their deeds serve as proof of its power. Isocrates reveals that Helen, in fact, stands in for 55 Goldhill 1987.

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beauty in general as a sign of ultimate value: beauty, he says, is “the most venerated, most honored, and most divine quality in the world” (54). As a visible quality, beauty lends value to all things, while “we will not find anything loved that has been stripped of beauty” (54–55). This seemingly shallow from a modern standpoint position is nevertheless consistent with the emphasis Isocrates’ culture placed on visibility as a condition for judging something, including virtue. We may recall Nietzsche’s famous observation that Greeks adored appearances and were “superficial – out of profundity.”56 This is why Isocrates states, as if it were self-evident, that “virtue (ἀρετήν) is especially esteemed because it is the most beautiful (κάλλιστον) of qualities” (54). In contrast to other things the appetite for which is satisfied through possession or consumption, explains Isocrates, “a longing (ἔρως) for beautiful things is innate in us, and it has a strength greater than our other wishes, just as its object is stronger” (55–56). Beauty, he argues, is an attribute that motivates us not to possess it but to act worthy of it: We have goodwill toward beautiful people as soon as we see them, and we serve only them without fail, as if they were gods. We enslave ourselves to such people with more pleasure than we rule others, and we have more gratitude to them, even when they impose many tasks on us, than to those who demand nothing. We criticize those who come under any other power and denounce them as flatterers, but we think that those who serve beauty are idealistic and industrious. (56–57)

This interlude arrests the flow of the mythological narrative to examine beauty’s appeal to Isocrates’ contemporaries. The author temporarily leaves behind the myth of Helen and its association with the power (and danger) of female beauty and evokes the male experience of gazing at beautiful males – no doubt an allusion to the various contexts that showcased bodily perfection, such as gymnasia, athletic competitions, and contests of manly beauty. The passage’s mixture of homoeroticism and religious veneration anticipates (and likely provokes) Plato’s treatment of homoerotic attraction as a prelude to a philosopher’s pursuit of ideal beauty in the Phaedrus.57 But whereas Plato posits beauty as an eternal form that exists independently of the human gaze and can be fully appreciated only by philosophical souls, Isocrates maintains that beauty is a visible attribute of objects, people, and actions – not a thing in itself – and that it requires an audience.

56 Nietzsche 1974, 38. 57 Howland 1937 argues that Plato’s Phaedrus is primarily a response to Isocrates’ Helen, while Helen’s introduction is likely an attack on Plato’s criticism of πολιτικὴ τέχνη in the Protagoras.

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Isocrates presents beauty as a universal motivator and Helen as its most illustrious and divine manifestation, but his depiction of legendary lovers of beauty suggests that honorable acts inspired by beauty must be seen and evaluated by spectators. Theseus, the Greek warriors, and Paris are all examples of how visible beauty engenders desire for honor. Yet honor is a prize bestowed by one’s political community – honor owes its character to those who judge it. In the case of Theseus, the founder of Athenian institutions, his honor was decided by his fellow citizens, whose newly found political freedom enabled them to appraise their noble benefactor as if he were their equal. The honor of kings and rulers who assembled to fight the barbarians on behalf of Helen and Greece depended on the judgment of their military peers and deities who decreed that it was more beautiful to die for a daughter of Zeus than to abstain from battle. Paris’ desire to ensure his progeny’s divine lineage through marriage to Helen aspired to the honor that would be granted by gods and would thus be impervious to human judgment. Yet even deities, as Paris’ example illustrates, sought a human arbiter for their beauty contest and inspired poets to compose verses in praise of themselves so that their glory would live on among mortals. While beauty affects all, including gods, how this motivation is transformed into action depends on the logic of visibility and spectatorship. As the most beautiful condition, virtue must be seen. Among the honorable actions inspired by beauty, Theseus’ brand of political virtue is clearly singled out as most deserving of admiration of Isocrates’ readers. In defending Theseus as the most trustworthy judge of Helen’s attributes, Isocrates shows that the hero’s erotic desire is channeled into a desire for civic excellence because he is being judged by free-thinking fellow citizens. By contrasting Theseus with glory-obsessed Heracles, on the one hand, and with status-seeking barbarian Paris, on the other, Isocrates indicates that Theseus is deserving of esteem because he seeks the recognition of others who are less powerful than himself. The spotlight given to Theseus therefore serves a didactic function, depicting the hero as just the kind of civic leader that Isocrates’ school aims to produce. If Gorgias’ Helen is ambivalent about the civic value of persuasive speech, Isocrates believes that his version of education in eloquence cultivates virtuous leaders who through their education learn both to speak well and to act well. Like athletic training (Isocrates’ favorite analogy), his logon paideia prepares pupils for competition in public arenas. However, a student coming to Isocrates for instruction should expect not only to imitate poetry and prose in order to gain facility in speech but also gradually to become a public person whose actions are worthy of praise.58 Isocrates’ educational program is rooted 58 Haskins 2004, 41.

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in the reciprocity of display and spectatorship as a condition for fostering responsible citizens. But Helen also comments on the larger cultural significance of rhetorical ἐπίδειξις. Similar to Gorgias’ Helen, Isocrates’ literary display not only draws attention to itself as a masterful performance, but also invites reflection on how aesthetically pleasurable experiences shape identity and motivate action. The pleasure of gazing at beauty is fundamentally erotic, for he says that we possess “an innate desire (ἔρως) for beautiful things” (55–56). Yet Isocrates deemphasizes sexual eroticism of spectatorship in favor of loftier forms of desire. Importantly, the words he uses to depict men’s reactions to Helen’s beauty – θαῦμα (admiration) and ἀγάπη (love, affection) – are also terms of religious awe. Indeed, at the end of the pamphlet, Isocrates comes back to the topic of Helen’s divinity and glorifies her as a goddess whose benevolence must be sought through “thank offerings, sacrifices, and processions” and praised by speeches composed by “philosophers” (66). His own discourse, he suggests, is precisely the type of offering that well-educated persons should be able to produce in her honor. Besides showing off one’s rhetorical ability and education, ἐπίδειξις promotes cultural continuity and social cohesion by supplying audiences with beautiful and ennobling depictions of their shared heritage. Placing encomiastic discourse in a festival-like context along with processions and sacrifices, Isocrates accents its wide aesthetic appeal and crucial civic function. In this way, Helen contributes to Isocrates’ life-long defense of ἐπίδειξις as a culturally and politically vital form of public address and civic education. Isocrates recognized the politically constitutive function of the many forms of display and spectatorship in ancient Greece, and his own educational program similarly stressed the reciprocal relationship between performers and audiences. Those who wished to become trusted political leaders, he maintained, must not only speak and act well but also submit themselves to the judgement of their fellow citizens. Political virtue, like any excellence, must be displayed and evaluated.

Conclusion Gorgias and Isocrates are undoubtedly masters of vivid storytelling but their epideixeis are no frivolous improvisations on a mythological theme. Viewed in the context of Athenian culture of spectacles, their respective encomia of Helen constitute a conversation about the virtues and drawbacks of competitive display and spectatorship in a democratic polis. Considered together, the two encomia not only illustrate distinct ways of playing with generic conventions but

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also furnish complementary examinations of the relationship between performers and audiences. While Gorgias spotlights the audience’s psychology, Isocrates ponders the influence of spectators on the pursuit of honor by accomplished performers. Gorgias’ exploration of various ways in which speech and vision can stamp the soul remains one of the most detailed and probing portrayals of persuasion in the history of rhetoric. His encomium, while reveling in the depiction of sights and sounds in the city of spectacles, is also a cautionary tale about the powers of verbal and visual display.59 The most remarkable aspect of Gorgias’ text is that it asks the audience members to attend to the internal mechanism of persuasion. Gorgias’ listeners/readers become spectators in what I called “the soul’s theater”, which allows them to see themselves as both active, discriminating judges and passive recipients of words and images. Gorgias challenges the ideological assumption of the audience’s active role and thereby helps to make spectatorship a “topic of self-reflexive concern in Athenian democratic discourse”.60 If Gorgias asks his audience to turn its gaze inward, Isocrates urges his readers to pay attention to – and delight in – the surface. However, to paraphrase Nietzsche, Isocrates’ focus on visible beauty and its powers to inspire beautiful actions is a profound meditation on spectacle as a mode of civic education. While he acknowledges beauty as a universal magnet, he shows that its capacity to motivate human conduct is actualized differently depending on who is watching. As one of Athenian democracy’s intellectual critics and an educator of aspiring politicians, Isocrates is sensitive to the tension between egalitarian and elitist ideologies within the discourse of the democratic polis. According to Josiah Ober, “egalitarian ideology stressed the native intelligence of the average Athenian,” while “elitist ideology emphasized that some men did possess extraordinary skills and that these skills, which could be refined by advanced education, were useful to the state”.61 In praising aristocratic Theseus’ political wisdom, Isocrates is careful to acknowledge Theseus’ usefulness to Athens and the approving response of Theseus’ citizen-spectators who validate this usefulness. As a paradigm of prudence, Theseus is shown to be superior to other beholders of beauty; at the same time, he puts himself on display for his political community and thereby opens himself to judgment of less powerful citizens.

59 See Kennerly 2010. 60 Goldhill 1999, 8. 61 Ober 1989, 189.

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Both texts, then, offer a space for reflection on the values and predispositions that underlie Athenian public culture and politics. Under the guise of praise for Helen, Gorgias and Isocrates show their contemporaries how to appreciate spectacles critically, on the one hand, and how to balance the pursuit of honor with the needs of the political community, on the other. In their hands, the artfully written encomium becomes a means for appraising the psychological and political dimensions of seeing and being seen.

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Rosie Harman

Metahistory and the visual in Herodotus and Thucydides An interest in the visual seems to be part of historiographic discourse in the Classical period (and beyond). Scenes of spectatorship and response, as well as a concern with the visibility of actions and the impact of their visibility on their interpretation, recur across a number of historical texts. Such scenes offer the possibility of reflection on the writing and reading of history.1 As historical characters are depicted observing events, being affected by and interpreting what they see, we are shown a model for the task of the historian in action. We are also shown a model for the task of the reader: just like characters within the narrative, the reader too must observe, judge and respond to the events which the text presents. Such concerns play an important role in the work of both Herodotus and Thucydides, who use the visual in different (although overlapping) ways. In this chapter, I would like to indicate how visual scenes allow these texts to explore problems and concerns specific to each. However, there are also similarities. In both texts, the act of viewing is imagined as politically engaged, and as politically problematic. Previous writing on the use of the visual in Herodotus and Thucydides has stressed the metatextual or metahistorical function of these texts’ depictions of responses to sights, but has tended to frame this as a device for bolstering the authority of the narratorial voice of the historian. We are shown spectators being deceived or manipulated by cleverly crafted displays, being overcome with emotion at spectacles, or otherwise being influenced in their response: we could read such acts of viewing as emblems of failure, as counter-models for the proper role of the historian and reader of history, who should reign in his or her emotions, not be misled, but stand back from events and come to a “clear view” of history. On this model, the historical narrator offers a way out of the problems that spectators within the text face, guiding the reader towards a correct reading. I would like to build on such interpretations, but in order to complicate such a reading. I will suggest that the reader, positioned as a viewer of the text’s narrative, is implicated in the problems faced by viewers within the narrative. The problem of how to look at the sights of the text reveals and allows engagement with the politics of the reading process. In the context of this short chapter, the interpre-

1 See Davidson 1991 on Polybius, Elsner 1992 and 1994 on Pausanias, Feldherr 1998 on Livy. Cf. Maier (this volume) on Procopius and Miltsios 2016. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-015

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tation offered here will aim to be indicative rather than exhaustive, but I hope will contribute towards the wider study of readerly process in these authors. It will also hopefully offer a contribution towards the study of the purpose and effects of experientiality in historiographic prose.

Herodotus: Political and cultural difference, and hybris Herodotus’ Histories contain repeated scenes of spectacle, display and spectatorship within a variety of cultural and political settings. Herodotus also presents the historian, and the reader, as viewing the events, peoples and places described. He calls his text a display (apodexis, Hdt. 1.1),2 describes objects and places mentioned in his narrative as worth seeing (axiotheētos),3 refers to the wondrous sights (thōmata) to be found in foreign lands,4 and verifies the authority of his narrative through the claim of having seen what he describes (autopsy).5 Herodotus uses claims about the visibility of what he describes (via use of the term phaneros; cf. also the rejection of what cannot be seen, to aphanes) to substantiate his arguments. His use of visual language recalls the terminology of the Pre-Socratic philosophers and early medical writers, indicating that for Herodotus the visual is associated with the acquisition of knowledge.6 However, many of the scenes of display and spectatorship presented in the text involve problems of interpretation. A well-known example is Xerxes’ viewing of the battle of Salamis. He observes the behaviour of his officers and has a scribe take notes: ὅκως γάρ τινα ἴδοι Ξέρξης τῶν ἑωυτοῦ ἔργον τι ἀποδεικνύμενον ἐν τῇ ναυμαχίῃ, κατήμενος ὑπὸ τῷ ὄρεϊ τῷ ἀντίον Σαλαμῖνος τὸ καλέεται Αἰγάλεως, ἀνεπυνθάνετο τὸν ποιήσαντα, καὶ οἱ γραμματισταὶ ἀνέγραφον πατρόθεν τὸν τριήραρχον καὶ τὴν πόλιν (Hdt. 8.90). For whenever Xerxes, from his seat under the hill over against Salamis called Aegaleos, saw any feat achieved by his own men in the battle, he inquired who was the doer of it, and his scribes wrote down the names of the ship’s captain and his father and his city. (trans. A. D. Godley)

2 Hartog 1988, 276 3 Hdt. 1.14, 1.184, 2.111, 2.163, 2.176 (two uses), 2.182, 3.123, 4.85, 4.162. Cf. ἄξιος θέης: 1.25, 9.25, 9.70, 9.109. 4 Hartog 1988, 230‒237, Elsner 1994, 230‒35, Munson 2001, 232‒65. 5 See Hartog 1988, 260‒309 on Herodotean autopsy. 6 See Thomas 2000, 190‒212, 221‒28, 249‒69.

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However, when Artemisia rams a Calyndian ship from her own side in order to escape from the pursuit of an Athenian vessel by tricking the Athenians on that vessel into believing that she is in fact on their side, Xerxes, watching these events (λέγεται γὰρ βασιλέα θηεύμενον μαθεῖν τὴν νέα ἐμβαλοῦσαν, Hdt. 8.88), assumes that she has successfully rammed an enemy ship, and praises her success (Hdt. 8.87‒8). Noting the role of Xerxes as observer and recorder of events, but one who misreads what he sees, Jonas Grethlein reads this scene as representing a failed model of the historian at work.7 Discussing Herodotus’ use of the visual as metahistorical discourse, he argues that the Histories present this compromised attempt at viewing as a foil for the trustworthy view offered to the reader by the Histories: “Xerxes’ failure to get the facts straight throws into relief the accuracy of Herodotus’ account”.8 While I agree that the visual in Herodotus operates as metahistorical or metatextual discourse, I would diverge from Grethlein’s reading by questioning how safe the reader remains from falling into the traps faced by spectators in the text. Acts of viewing in the Histories are often highly politically problematic, not just for the text’s internal viewers but for the reader too. Scenes of viewing become moments where the reader’s cultural and political relationship to the groups described in the text are constructed, explored and tested. Indeed, as I will argue, we could understand the pay-off of a highly visual narrative style in Greek historiography to be the implication of the reader in the problems of the historical narrative. Herodotus’ story of Gyges and the wife of Candaules is a good illustration. In a near-quotation from Heraclitus (22 B 101a D.-K.), Candaules insists that Gyges look at his wife naked on the grounds that telling him of her beauty is insufficient, since “the ears are more untrustworthy than the eyes” (ὦτα γὰρ τυγχάνει ἀνθρώποισι ἐόντα ἀπιστότερα ὀφθαλμῶν, Hdt. 1.8). This saying marks the importance of the visual in the acquisition of knowledge. However, crucially, this episode presents viewing not only as a means of accessing information about the world, but as a problematic and politically charged act. Gyges begs the king not to make him look, warning that each man should “look to his own” (πάλαι δὲ τὰ καλὰ ἀνθρώποισι ἐξεύρηται, ἐκ τῶν μανθάνειν δεῖ· ἐν τοῖσι ἓν τόδε ἐστί, σκοπέειν τινὰ τὰ ἑωυτοῦ, Hdt. 1.8): Gyges’ struggle to avoid seeing what he should not and the violent consequences of his viewing – as one

7 Grethlein 2009. Christ 1994 notes the role of Herodotean kings as observers and investigators, offering possible models for the historian. See also Katz Anhalt 2008 for the suggestion that compromised models of viewing establish in contrast the trustworthy nature of the Herodotean narrative voice. 8 Grethlein 2009, 208.

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dynasty gives way to another, and a chain of retribution begins which resonates throughout the text – mark the visual act as a matter of concern. It also raises a question for the text’s audience. The scene is highly voyeuristic, as Candaules describes how the sight of the woman stripping off her clothes can be enjoyed in secret from behind a door (κεῖται δὲ ἀγχοῦ τῆς ἐσόδου θρόνος· ἐπὶ τοῦτον τῶν ἱματίων κατὰ ἓν ἕκαστον ἐκδύνουσα θήσει, καὶ κατ᾽ ἡσυχίην πολλὴν παρέξει τοι θεήσασθαι, Hdt. 1.9). Candaules’ display of his wife gives the Greek reader a privileged “view” onto an alluringly exotic foreign world – a view which the text, as a “display” (apodexis, Hdt. 1.1) of the affairs of Greeks and non-Greeks, consistently promotes.9 Interestingly, despite Candaules’ detailed guidance on how best to observe the undressing of the queen, the text never tells us what the queen looks like naked. The vivid detail of Candaules’ words allows us to imagine ourselves, like Gyges, stepping into the bedroom and peering out from behind the door, but the sight that Gyges sees from his hiding place is not described.10 The text playfully withholds the punchline; we are teased with the possibility of seeing what we should not see, but then finally we are not quite allowed to look. The illicit nature of the viewing process, and our involvement in it, is emphasized. As we take pleasure in the erotic narrative, enjoying our vicarious near-miss “look” at the queen – just as we are told that to look is inadvisable, and may have dangerous unforeseen consequences – we cannot stand aloof from the sense of transgression and risk attached to this viewing. Standing programmatically at the opening of the text, the scene both offers the non-Greek world for the reader’s gaze and hints that this experience may not always be a comfortable, self-affirming one. The positioning of the reader against the sights of the text is similarly raised in the scenes of viewing in the Histories which involve ethnographic response, as viewers gaze at foreign sights.11 One such narrative is the story of the Athenian wise man Solon’s viewing of the palace of Croesus of Lydia. Solon gazes at the marvellous riches of Croesus,12 but when asked who he thinks is

9 See Walker 1993, 373 on the story of Gyges’ viewing of Candaules’ wife as “a story that reflects Herodotus’ own project as an intruding ethnographer”. 10 Katz Anhalt 2008, 274 notes that a lot more attention is paid to Candaules’ description of what can be seen than to Gyges’ experience of the sight itself. 11 Hartog 1988. See e.g. the Fish-Eaters’ viewing of Ethiopia (Hdt. 3.23‒4), the Spartans viewing the dead Persians on the battlefield of Marathon (Hdt. 6.120), and examples discussed below. 12 Hdt. 1.30: …κελεύσαντος Κροίσου τὸν Σόλωνα θεράποντες περιῆγον κατὰ τοὺς θησαυρούς, καὶ ἐπεδείκνυσαν πάντα ἐόντα μεγάλα τε καὶ ὄλβια. θεησάμενον δέ μιν τὰ πάντα καὶ σκεψάμενον, ὥς οἱ κατὰ καιρὸν ἦν, εἴρετο ὁ Κροῖσος τάδε.

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the most blessed man in the world, much to Croesus’ dismay he recounts stories of poor Greek men who have lived simple, pious lives and received honour in death (Hdt. 1.29‒33). Solon’s sight of and response to the riches of Croesus’ palace potentially mediates the reader’s response to alien luxury by providing an authoritative “Greek view”, which contrasts with and allows rejection of Croesus’ way of seeing.13 The terminology in this scene, which repeatedly refers to Solon as undertaking theōria (κατὰ θεωρίης πρόφασιν ἐκπλώσας, Hdt. 1.29; τῆς θεωρίης ἐκδημήσας ὁ Σόλων εἵνεκεν, Hdt. 1.30; φιλοσοφέων γῆν πολλὴν θεωρίης εἵνεκεν ἐπελήλυθας, Hdt. 1.30), might suggest that Solon is somehow representing Athens or Greece. The term allows us to picture Solon as if he were acting in the capacity of a sacred ambassador sent out to view foreign festivals on behalf of his city (a frequent connotation of theōria), thereby giving cultural authority to his position as a viewer.14 One reading has argued that in this scene, as in the scenes of Xerxes’ spectatorship, Herodotus establishes a particularly barbarian, and particularly autocratic, mode of viewing for Croesus, which contrasts with a Greek way of seeing.15 In contrast, I would suggest that the problem of how Greeks respond to sights is self-consciously addressed and questioned in Herodotus. For example, in the description of Peisistratus’ display of Phya mocked up as the goddess Athena in his attempt to regain the tyranny of Athens, Herodotus claims not only that Greeks are less easily duped than non-Greeks, but that Athenians are less easily duped than other Greeks (Hdt. 1.60). Yet Herodotus also informs us that, in spite of this, the Athenians were duped by Peisistratus. A division between Greek and non-Greek ways of seeing is no sooner asserted than undercut. Similarly, although Solon’s way of seeing might appear to be valorised, this too is not straightforward. The Solon-Croesus narrative gets its humor and critical edge from the reversal of Solon refusing to see things in the way that Croesus anticipates and desires. Yet, in this contest of values, the surprising, radical nature of Solon’s absolute rejection of the blessings of Croesus’ life might also alienate the Greek reader used to more traditional, socially hierarchical, ways of thinking about the world. Not only may Solon’s assertion of the early death of Cleobis and Biton as an ideal model for human life be potentially

13 See Redfield 1985, 102. 14 See Rutherford 1995 on the religious connotations of theōria. See Ker 2000, 308–11 for a discussion of Solon’s viewing in terms of the political role of the theōros as city representative. As Nightingale 2004, 40‒71 notes, theōria can suggest viewing at foreign sanctuaries by private pilgrims or by sacred ambassadors, as well as having a more general application to the viewing of sights abroad; it seems to imply the experience of the foreign. 15 Konstan 1987, 68.

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hard to swallow, but it may be hard for the reader not to be impressed by the account of Croesus’ riches (especially given the evocative detail which the text lavishes on the description of the Lydian kings’ Delphic dedications, both those of Croesus and those of his ancestors, before and after this episode: Hdt. 1.14, 25, 50‒54). Although on the surface we are pointed one way, in this most polyvocal – and (to coin a term) polyvisual – of texts, the ghost of alternative ways of seeing lurks behind every encounter. The potential ambiguity of the responses invited by the Solon-Croesus encounter is heightened by the liminal position that Lydia holds in the text. The Croesus narrative, which is (according to the narratorial statements at Hdt. 1.5) supposed to explain the origins of conflict between Greeks and barbarians, offers the possibility of questioning the fixity of those divisions.16 Croesus (like the other Lydian kings) is described as attacking and subjugating Greek cities, but also as dependent on the Delphic oracle and as welcoming to Greek intellectuals. Lydian customs are similar to Greek ones, and a number of Greek customs were originally Lydian (Hdt. 1.94) – although the comment that Lydian customs are similar to Greek customs apart from the fact that the Lydians prostitute their daughters (Λυδοὶ δὲ νόμοισι μὲν παραπλησίοισι χρέωνται καὶ Ἕλληνες, χωρὶς ἢ ὅτι τὰ θήλεα τέκνα καταπορνεύουσι, Hdt. 1.94), a custom that would be a complete travesty of normative Greek social conduct, ironically allows us to question how far this similarity goes. For the reader, knowing what to make of such a culture, and how to position oneself in relation to it, is difficult. The reader is also implicated, I suggest, in those scenes which deal with the problematics of power. As Matthew Christ has shown, the Histories present a number of “enquiring kings”, who test, examine and interpret phenomena about them, acting as models of the historian against which the historical approach of the narrator can be compared.17 Christ shows how some enquiring kings pervert the processes of historical investigation through the hubristic abuse of their power.18 We might think here of the viewing of Xerxes at Salamis, mentioned above. Part of the ironic punch of the narrative of Xerxes’ misreading of the sea battle comes from the self-important way in which Xerxes views: he sits with his courtiers, watching and judging the actions of his subordinates, yet nevertheless, he gets it all wrong.19 Elsewhere, the text shows a

16 See Pelling 1997, 56 on the liminal position of Lydia. 17 Christ 1994. 18 See also Munson 1991 on the hubristic king as a perverted model of the historian. 19 Xerxes’ distanced viewing is reminiscent of Zeus watching the Trojan War from Mount Ida in the Iliad: Grethlein 2009, 209 and de Jong 1999, 268. His viewing of Salamis is imagined as an assertion of power over his men: Xerxes watches in order to make his men fight better (Hdt. 8.69), and indeed each man is spurred on by the fear that the king’s eyes may be on him

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concern with powerful figures trying to assert or cement their position by staging (often deceptive) spectacles which their audiences must interpret and respond to.20 The Athenians, in seeing Peisistratus’ display of the false Athena in the way that he desires them to, submit to political coercion (Hdt. 1.60), whereas Xerxes fails to mislead his men with a fabricated display of corpses which aims to conceal the scale of Persian losses after the battle of Thermopylae (Hdt. 8.24‒5): although his men come to see the sight (ταύτην μὲν τὴν ἡμέρην πρὸς θέην ἐτράποντο, Hdt. 8.25), no one is taken in. Importantly, it is not just the historical narrator but also the reader whose role as enquirer and interpreter is prefigured in these viewers. As we are shown viewers whose overconfidence in their position, or alternatively whose malleability, leads to a mistaken interpretation with political consequences, the reader is invited to consider his or her own relationship to the sights encountered in the text. We can ask about what we might call the reader’s cultural confidence in relation to the foreign sights of the text. The Histories invite us to consider how far the experience of reading about the strange ways of exotic peoples will allow for an affirmative construction of Greekness, and how far it is an unsettling experience which calls into question how Greek identity might be constituted and thought about.21 The Histories present examples of views of foreign behaviour being greeted with bemusement and derision by self-confident viewers. A good example might be Xerxes before Thermopylae: when his scout, after gazing at the Spartans preparing themselves before battle (ἐθηεῖτό τε καὶ κατώρα, Hdt. 7.208; ταῦτα δὴ θεώμενος ἐθώμαζε, Hdt. 7.208) describes the Spartans exercising and combing their hair, Xerxes finds this laughable (ἀλλ᾽ αὐτῷ γελοῖα γὰρ

(Hdt. 8.86). Xerxes acts as a spectator in a number of related scenes, which similarly suggest the empowered position from which he views: on the way to Greece, he stops to see Troy (Hdt. 7.43); at Abydus he gazes at his army and makes his ships put on a race (Hdt. 7.44); he watches his troops cross the Hellespont (Hdt. 7.56); at Doriscus he reviews his army and navy (Hdt. 7.100); he goes to see the mouth of the Peneus river in Thessaly (Hdt. 7.128); and he watches the battle at Thermopylae (Hdt. 7.212). Cf. Darius’ gaze at the Black Sea and Bosphorus (Hdt. 4.85, 87). 20 Many scenes can be discussed in terms the political relations constructed through viewing. For example, the Candaules-Gyges narrative, which presents viewing as potentially both dangerous and desirable, is centred on the instability of such relations. Candaules forces Gyges against his will to see what he should not, but through the act of viewing Gyges’ position in relation to both king and queen changes. His role as viewer of another man’s wife prefigures and instantiates his displacement of that man: having warned that each man should look to his own, it turns out that he is looking to his own: see Konstan 1983, 11‒13. Similarly, Solon’s refusal to be impressed by Croesus’ display marks Croesus’ failure to assert himself and reaffirm his position. 21 See esp. Hartog 1988, Dewald 1990, and Pelling 1997.

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ἐφαίνοντο ποιέειν, Hdt. 7.209). But it is soon revealed that he was mistaken in his dismissal of the Spartans. Here the laughter of Xerxes reveals his hubris: because of his over-confidence in his position, he has made the error of misinterpreting the sight. We can compare this to another episode: Pausanias’ viewing of the paraphernalia of Mardonius (Hdt. 9.82). On capturing the luxurious tent of Mardonius, Pausanias has Mardonius’ cooks cook a Persian meal, which he displays in all its decadence beside a simple Spartan meal. Asking his followers to compare the two, he laughs (γελάσαντα, Hdt. 9.82) at the absurdity of the wealthy Persians desiring to capture such a poor land as Greece. As with the Solon-Croesus episode, the surface level of the narrative invites the reader to laugh alongside Pausanias, valorising the Spartans’ mockery of Persian decadence. But, as Munson has shown in her analysis of the madness of Cambyses,22 Herodotus reveals the foolishness of mocking foreign customs. In reading this episode we may wonder if Pausanias has entirely understood the Persians and is correct to disparage them so easily, remembering that just as he may laugh at them, so too, Xerxes laughed at the Spartans.23 Pausanias’ display is also a display of Spartan austerity, and his view is a Spartan view: for him the meagre Spartan meal with which he compares the Persian fare is normality. Yet, for non-Spartan readers, there may be an element of ethnographic distance in their viewing of Spartan customs here, which might bring their experience slightly closer to that of Xerxes before Thermopylae.24 Similarly, although in the Thermopylae scene Xerxes’ arrogantly dismissive attitude may alienate us from his perspective, nevertheless, through allowing us to experience Spartan behaviour through the prism of Persian incomprehension, the Spartans’ oddity and potential to confound is also highlighted. Such scenes invite us to consider how secure we can and should be in our own cultural or political position. To return to our earlier examples, the GygesCandaules story also revolves around acts of hubris: Candaules over-confidently displays what he should not, but Gyges over-confidently looks at what he should not 25 – as, perhaps, do we as readers. Can we look at the queen with 22 Munson 1991. 23 See Redfield 1985, 115: “[Herodotus] tells the story in ironic criticism of Pausanias, and as a warning to the Greeks. (Laughter is always a bad sign in Herodotus.)” We can compare Cambyses’ mockery of Egyptian religion with the Ethiopian King’s laughter at Persian diet and customs (Hdt. 3.22.2). See Munson 1991, 60. 24 See Cartledge 1993, 80‒82 and Hartog 1988, 152–156 on the Spartans as a “Greek Other” in Herodotus. Cf. also Millender 1996 on the “barbarization” of Sparta in fifth century literature. 25 Konstan 1983, 11‒13, Christ 1994, 188. On Gyges’ responsibility, see Katz Anhalt 2008, 274‒ 5 on the oracle cited at Hdt. 1.91. Whereas in the original episode Gyges is a passive and powerless character and the bad decision is down to Candaules, in this later reference back to the story, the blame is attributed to Gyges.

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the self-assured gaze of the ethnographer-voyeur, or might this look into a foreign world also, simultaneously, be disturbing? Similarly, Croesus has false confidence in his position: as we gaze at the lavish but conventional pleasures of his life, how confident can we be that we really do see things differently from him? I have suggested that the problems faced by Herodotus’ spectators are problems which the reader too must face in positioning himself or herself against the sights of the text. We are offered alternative ways of responding to sights from different cultural or political perspectives, we are shown the instability of these perspectives, and we are shown viewers too secure (or too easily influenced) in their cultural or political position. All this reflects back on the experience of the reader as a “viewer” of the text, reminding us of the difficulties of reading history – the difficulties involved in looking back, as a Greek, at these Greek and non-Greek events, and interpreting their consequences for the present.

Thucydides: Power struggles, emotion, judgment In Thucydides, as with Herodotus, the visual is the basis for knowledge. Thucydides stresses the importance of the eye witness in his methodological preface. He frequently shows political or military decisions being made on the basis of what can be seen and speakers justifying their position by reference to their scrutiny of evidence (particularly through the verb skeptomai).26 However, the act of viewing is not always straightforward. Thucydides depicts the battlefield as a visual arena, where being in control of what you see, and looking in the right way, are involved in the construction of relations of power. In fighting against Arrhabaeus, Brasidas advises his men not to be taken in by the fearsome display of the enemy: “You should be able to see clearly that everything about them which you thought frightening amounts in real fact to very little, alarming as it may be to look at and listen to” (σαφῶς τε πᾶν τὸ προϋπάρχον δεινὸν ἀπ᾽ αὐτῶν ὁρᾶτε ἔργῳ μὲν βραχὺ ὄν, ὄψει δὲ καὶ ἀκοῇ κατασπέρχον, Thuc. 4.126.6).27 Brasidas is successful at the second battle of Amphipolis because he makes sure that he gets a view over the terrain and the movements of his opponent, Cleon (κατεφαίνετο πάντα αὐτόθεν, ὥστε οὐκ ἂν ἔλαθεν αὐτὸν ὁρμώμενος ὁ Κλέων

26 See e.g. Themistocles’ advice to the Spartans not to trust verbal reports about the building of Athens’ walls but to send envoys who could see for themselves (Thuc. 1.91.2). Crane 1996, 242‒3. 27 Greenwood 2006, 30‒31. Transl. Warner 1954 (with adaptations).

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τῷ στρατῷ, Thuc. 5.6.3). In contrast, although Cleon goes to a hilltop and looks (ἐλθών τε καὶ καθίσας ἐπὶ λόφου καρτεροῦ πρὸ τῆς Ἀμφιπόλεως τὸν στρατὸν αὐτὸς ἐθεᾶτο τὸ λιμνῶδες τοῦ Στρυμόνος καὶ τὴν θέσιν τῆς πόλεως ἐπὶ τῇ Θρᾴκῃ ὡς ἔχοι, Thuc. 5.7.3), he fails to see what Brasidas is doing. Cleon, it seems, looks in the wrong way.28 The verb used to describe his look is theaomai, which indicates a leisurely gaze (cf. the description of Cleon’s viewing: κατὰ θέαν, Thuc. 5.7.3 and 5.9.3). Although very frequent in Herodotus, this verb is rare in Thucydides.29 The marked use of this term here is reminiscent of Cleon’s own attack on the Athenian assembly for becoming the “spectators of speeches” (θεαταί … τῶν λόγων, Thuc. 3.38.4) of others, rather than relying on their own sight to make judgments (τὰ δὲ πεπραγμένα ἤδη, οὐ τὸ δρασθὲν πιστότερον ὄψει λαβόντες ἢ τὸ ἀκουσθέν, ἀπὸ τῶν λόγῳ καλῶς ἐπιτιμησάντων, Thuc. 3.38.4) – for failing to use viewing in the appropriate way.30 Reading Cleon’s complaint in the context of the political importance of the spectator in the institutions of democratic Athens such as the assembly, law court and theatre, Simon Goldhill argues that an evaluative, judging, analytical form of viewing had become an ideal of civic participation.31 This has important implications for the reader of Thucydides’ text. As Emily Greenwood has argued, Thucydides presents the reading process as visual experience: Thucydides tells us that the text will prove useful to those who want to look clearly (τὸ σαφὲς σκοπεῖν, Thuc. 1.22.4) at the past.32 However, often viewers in the text are unable to gain knowledge from sight, either like

28 Greenwood 2006, 26‒30. 29 Crane 1996, 244‒246. Crane discusses the three uses of this verb in Thucydides. In addition to Cleon’s gaze, this verb is used disparagingly by the Athenians of the Melians: “On the basis of these discussions, you alone, as you appear to us, judge the future as clearer (saphestera) than the things before your eyes (horōmena), and because of your wishes, you gaze upon (theasthe) those things which are invisible (aphanē) as if they already existed” (Thuc. 5.113). Crane suggests that the term denotes a “fascinated gaze” (245), which here is used to mark the Melians’ foolishness. The third use of the term occurs in Pericles’ funeral oration: Pericles invites his audience to gaze upon (theōmenous) the power of their city and become her lovers (Thuc. 2.43.1). Crane notes that unlike elsewhere in Thucydides, here an emotionally laden, fascinated look is promoted, in contrast to the more rational, analytical form of viewing suggested by the visual terms more common to Thucydides, skopeô and skeptomai: “Where Herodotus turns again and again to theaomai, “to gaze”, and the picture of the traveler, exposed to a new environment, gazing in surprise at new phenomena, Thucydides dwells upon the detached observer. His favourite words for vision are skeptomai and skopeō, virtually synonymous terms for scrutinizing and studying evidence” (Crane 1996, 241). 30 Greenwood 2006, 27, Goldhill 2000, 172‒173, Ludwig 2002, 366. 31 Goldhill 1998, 106‒109, Goldhill 1999, 1‒10, and Goldhill 2000. 32 Greenwood 2006, 19‒41. See also Walker 1993, 374, and Woodman 1988, 23‒28.

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Cleon, because they look in the wrong way, or because in the confusion of battle they are unable to see what is happening around them. Viewers also frequently misread what they see, through limited perspectives, through the manipulation of display by others, or because their own emotions get the better of them, leading them to overly optimistic or overly pessimistic interpretations. Greenwood argues that the failed or mistaken views of characters in the text act as foils for the “clear view” of history offered to the reader by the Thucydidean narrator: the readers of Thucydides are allowed to see and understand more than the characters in the text. This reading imagines the use of the visual in Thucydides as a metahistorical discourse which serves to bolster the authority of the text as trustworthy guide: “Thucydides distinguishes the kind of sight that is available to agents in history from the reflective sight and insight that is possible for readers of his History”.33 Yet, as with Herodotus, I would question how far the reader’s experience can remain unaffected by the problems faced by viewers in the text, and would suggest that the treatment of viewing in this text can be read as selfreflexive. I would also stress the political implications of the reader’s visual involvement. In a text where being able to view in an incisive, independent way is involved in the production of power and political self-determination, we can ask how the reader is positioned in relation to the sights of the text. On a number of occasions in the narrative leading up to the Sicilian Disaster, the Athenians are depicted as being won over or deceived by impressive display. The Athenians are persuaded by the spectacular figure of Alcibiades, who claims to have increased the Greeks’ perception of Athens’ power through his extravagant chariot display at Olympia (Thuc. 6.16.2). The Athenian envoys and naval crews are falsely convinced of the magnitude of the Egestans’ funds after being shown the silver temple dedications and being entertained at banquet with gold and silver cups (Thuc. 6.46.3‒5). The Athenian population, unsure of the wisdom of sending out the fleet to Sicily, have their enthusiasm renewed by the spectacular sight of the ships in the harbour at Piraeus (διὰ τὸ πλῆθος ἑκάστων ὧν ἑώρων, τῇ ὄψει ἀνεθάρσουν, Thuc. 6.31.1). Responses to sights are political responses; viewers are persuaded to make political decisions or to identify with political figures. Yet Thucydides depicts spectacle as capable of stirring up emotions so powerful that the spectators’ critical judgments about what they see are lost. As Andrew Walker comments: “In the Piraeus scene, the outstanding spectacle of the Athenian fleet all but overwhelms the Athenians’ misgivings about the wisdom of the expedition as a whole […]

33 Greenwood 2006, 26.

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Conflicting feelings of hope and lamentation are alleviated by the impressive sight (opsis) of the powerful Athenian fleet…”.34 Putting such scenes in the context of discussions about the misleading nature of visual appearances elsewhere in the text,35 Lisa Kallet argues that Thucydides is criticising the Athenians for “incorrectly interpreting opsis in the context of power”.36 However, interestingly, Kallet also notes some ambiguity: “While I have argued that Thucydides has constructed his account to privilege the negative interpretation – that the signs by which people are judging power are misguided and that ostentatious display does not per se signify power – he weaves into it the possibility, accepted by his contemporaries certainly, that the Athenians were setting out on an expedition of manifestly great strength”.37 As we read about the setting out of the expedition, despite our knowledge through hindsight that it will turn out badly, the vividness of the writing and the use of visualisation make us feel as if we were there, among the spectators, and like them, we may be impressed by the sight. The use of enargeia and temporal perspectives in Thucydides is pertinent here. As Grethlein has shown, through the avoidance of narratorial prolepsis and the frequent use of “side-shadowing” – the observation that at any stage different things could have happened – Thucydides restricts the temporal focus of the narrative to the perspective of the characters, meaning that we are placed in the same position as the audiences in the text, for whom the future is as yet undetermined.38 Although we are shown an audience led astray by emotion in their interpretation of a sight, we are also encouraged to look through their eyes, and may risk a similar response. A number of scenes focus on the feelings of viewers. At Pylos, Thucydides describes the growing confidence of the Athenians as they see their own numbers (αὐτοὶ τῇ τε ὄψει τοῦ θαρσεῖν τὸ πλεῖστον εἰληφότες πολλαπλάσιοι φαινόμενοι, Thuc. 4.34.1), and the confusion and fear of the Spartans who are caught in a cloud of ash and cannot see where they are or what they are doing (ἄπορόν τε ἦν ἰδεῖν τὸ πρὸ αὑτοῦ, Thuc. 4.34.2; ἀποκεκλῃμένοι μὲν τῇ ὄψει τοῦ προορᾶν, Thuc. 4.34.3).39 We are given a similar description of confusion

34 Walker 1993, 356. 35 See Kallet 2001, 56–58 on Thucydides’ comment about the difficulty of judging the power of Mycenae, Sparta and Athens from the visual impression of their cities, since Sparta will look less powerful, and Athens more powerful, than they are (Thuc. 1.10.1‒3). 36 Kallet 2001, 83. 37 Kallet 2001, 84. 38 Grethlein 2010, 254: “the reading experience mirrors the experiences at the level of the action with regard to the future”. 39 Rood 1998, 49‒50.

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in the night battle at Epipolae: “The moon was bright, but they saw each other in the way that is to be expected in moonlight: that is they would see the sight of a body, before they could be sure if it belonged to one of their own men” (ἦν μὲν γὰρ σελήνη λαμπρά, ἑώρων δὲ οὕτως ἀλλήλους ὡς ἐν σελήνῃ εἰκὸς τὴν μὲν ὄψιν τοῦ σώματος προορᾶν, τὴν δὲ γνῶσιν τοῦ οἰκείου ἀπιστεῖσθαι, Thuc. 7.44.2).40 Thucydides remarks on the problem of providing an account of events: since even in daylight participants can never see everything that happens, at night “how could anyone know clearly what had happened?” (πῶς ἄν τις σαφῶς τι ᾔδει, Thuc. 7.44.1). Greenwood notes “a parallel between the conditions of military struggle and [Thucydides’] own historical endeavour” but argues that Thucydides is able to overcome these problems to present an authoritative account: “Thucydides has it both ways … He manages to impress both sights and sounds on us, gratifying the desire for entertainment which he dismissed at 1.22.4, while still maintaining an impression of historiographical rigour and circumspection […] Because he informs us that a sense of confusion and an inability to distinguish what was going on were themselves determining factors in the battle, Thucydides’ account reads convincingly”.41

There is a lot to be said for this reading. At both Pylos and Epipolae, Thucydides does seem to give us a “panoptic” view of all the different elements of confusion on the battlefield, which explain the outcome. However, we could add to this reading by considering the effect on the reader of the focus on sights (and sounds): the experiential aspects of the text can be understood as a way of shaping interpretations. The vividness of the writing, which invites us to experience, moment-by-moment, the feelings of the participants, enables us to understand the historical outcome, which is often the direct product of the historical actors’ perceptions.42 But it also has a political effect. By enabling us to see as the different participants see and experience events from their perspectives, the text forces us to consider how far we identify with the different sides depicted. The political effects of a vivid narrative style are most clearly revealed in Thucydides’ representation of speeches. One reading of manipulative speech in the text has seen it as a foil for the authoritative narratorial voice. On this model, the introduction of alternative voices into the text via persuasive speeches serves to reveal the inadequacy of rhetoric as a trustworthy guide,

40 Transl. Greenwood 2006, 36. 41 Greenwood 2006, 36. 42 See Rood 1998, 57: “The emotional aspects of the narrative are themselves part of its historical meaning”.

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as we are shown how internal audiences are misled; this reveals Thucydides’ historical endeavour as superior, and places Thucydides’ readers in a superior position.43 However, as Elton Barker has argued, attention to the experiential nature of Thucydides’ assembly scenes allows us to complicate this reading. The vividness of the text, which invites the reader to step into the shoes of the speeches’ audiences, listening to and judging the speeches just as they do, means that it is much harder for readers to distance themselves from problems faced by internal audiences; instead, the reader is forced to take part.44 This has political consequences: rather than seeing the text as essentially univocal, insisting on the absolute authority of the Thucydidean narrator, and also as opposed to democratic processes, rejecting speech-making as manipulative and assembly audience responses as overly emotional and misguided, we are rather forced to experience the problem of political decision making.45 This is self-reflexive: the reader is exposed to the difficulties of weighing up and judging between claims and explanations in a way that reflects back on his or her wider reading of the text.46 Similar problems, I suggest, are raised in the use of visual perspectives in Thucydides. This is well illustrated by Thucydides’ description of the battle in the Syracusan harbour (Thuc. 7.71). Thucydides describes how observers standing in different places on the shore saw different things and therefore interpreted what was happening differently: διὰ τὸ 〈ἀνώμαλον〉 τῆς ναυμαχίας ἀνώμαλον καὶ τὴν ἔποψιν ἐκ τῆς γῆς ἠναγκάζοντο ἔχειν. δι᾽ ὀλίγου γὰρ οὔσης τῆς θέας καὶ οὐ πάντων ἅμα ἐς τὸ αὐτὸ σκοπούντων, εἰ μέν τινες ἴδοιέν πῃ τοὺς σφετέρους ἐπικρατοῦντας, ἀνεθάρσησάν τε ἂν καὶ πρὸς ἀνάκλησιν θεῶν μὴ στερῆσαι σφᾶς τῆς σωτηρίας ἐτρέποντο, οἱ δ᾽ ἐπὶ τὸ ἡσσώμενον βλέψαντες ὀλοφυρμῷ τε ἅμα μετὰ βοῆς ἐχρῶντο καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν δρωμένων τῆς ὄψεως καὶ τὴν γνώμην μᾶλλον τῶν ἐν τῷ ἔργῳ ἐδουλοῦντο: ἄλλοι δὲ καὶ πρὸς ἀντίπαλόν τι τῆς ναυμαχίας ἀπιδόντες, διὰ τὸ ἀκρίτως ξυνεχὲς τῆς ἁμίλλης καὶ τοῖς σώμασιν αὐτοῖς ἴσα τῇ δόξῃ περιδεῶς ξυναπονεύοντες ἐν τοῖς χαλεπώτατα διῆγον: αἰεὶ γὰρ παρ᾽ ὀλίγον ἢ διέφευγον ἢ ἀπώλλυντο. (7.71.2‒3) As the battle swung this way and that, so, inevitably, did their impressions alter as they watched it from the shore. The sight was close in front of them and, as they were not all at once looking in the same direction, some saw that at one point their own side was winning, and took courage at the sight and began to call upon the gods not to deprive

43 See Ober 1998, 53‒63. 44 Barker 2009, 203‒63, esp. 206‒7: “because of Thucydides’ strategy of direct imitation […] his representations of debate also have the effect of propelling readers into the hurly-burly of warring words, which, to a certain extent at any rate, puts them at risk of being seduced by the arguments reproduced”. 45 See esp. Barker 2009, 240‒48, on the Mytilene debate. 46 See Dewald 1999 on strategies of focalisation in Thucydides.

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them of their salvation, while others, looking towards a point where their men had been defeated, cried out aloud in lamentation, and were more broken in spirit by the sight of what was being done than were the men actually engaged in the fighting. Others were looking at some part of the battle where there was nothing to choose between the two sides, and, as the fight went on and on with no decision reached, their bodies, swaying this way and that, showed the trepidation with which their minds were filled, and wretched indeed was their state, constantly on the verge of safety, constantly on the brink of destruction.47

Thucydides’ narrative allows us to see and understand more than the text’s actors. We see from multiple perspectives at once, and thereby have a better overarching view of what is happening than individual spectators who can only see what is in front of them. The passage can also be read as metahistorical reflection. Following Thucydides’ discussion of the difficulties in using eye witness reports (Thuc. 1.22.3), the passage offers self-conscious reflection on how viewing (as historical analysis) works.48 Viewers’ experiences may be partial, and sights may be misinterpreted due to emotional investment: overwhelmed by their fear, those who see their side winning think salvation is near and those who see them losing are distraught. One reading would therefore see this as a warning to the reader about how not to view (and read). However, the emotionalism of the passage also serves to draw in the reader: as we read, we are put on tenterhooks, just like the observers in the text who sway to and fro in their anxiety about what will happen next. The concern with how the audience feels and the vivid way in which the fluctuation of emotions is described allows the reader to imagine that he or she is there: we experience the battle though the eyes of the viewers on the shore. As Plutarch notes, “assuredly Thucydides is always striving for this vividness in his writing, since it is his desire to make the reader a spectator, as it were, and to produce vividly in the minds of those who peruse his narrative the emotions of amazement and consternation which were experienced by those who beheld them”.49

We must ask how easily we can escape the problems faced by spectators in the text. And further, we must ask about the political implications of our emotional involvement. If we as readers are pulled in by the text, affected by the emotions of the Athenian spectators on the shore as we see from their perspective, how far can we distance ourselves to view the battle, and the Athenian venture in Sicily more generally, with the dispassionate eyes which Thucydides’ preface

47 Transl. Warner 1954. 48 Walker 1993, 372‒75. 49 Plut. De glor. Ath. 347a. Transl. Babbit 1936.

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informs us are required by the historian?50 The passage both offers the possibility of understanding more than the participants, and also mires us in their emotions.51 Rather than (only) providing a model of how not to read, we could see this passage as exploring the problem of reading. Just as the Athenians are overwhelmed by their circumstances, and are led to partial and partisan interpretations, so too in reading about their experiences we may be sucked into identifying with them – even as their mistakes and “short-sightedness”, both here and across the Sicilian Expedition narrative more widely, may also prompt us to criticise them. Although the text allows us to consider historical events at a safe and critical distance, it also reminds us of the difficulty of retaining critical distance when faced with events such as these – events which for Thucydides’ original readers still had political resonance, and might still seem too close for comfort.

Conclusion In this brief discussion, my aim has been to suggest a reconsideration of the use and effects of the visual in Herodotus and Thucydides. Following recent scholarship, I have suggested that these texts’ representations of spectatorship and uses of visualised narrative can be read in terms of their metatextual or metahistorical connotations. However, I have departed from previous readings in regards to the implications of these metahistorical reflections for the political experience of the reader. As I have shown, these texts have different concerns. Reflection on historical method has different implications in each, and each text constructs the readerly process in different ways. However, there are similarities between them too. Both, I suggest, allow the possibility of self-reflexivity in their moments of metahistorical reflection. As well as showing mistakes made by interpreters of history, which the reader is allowed to overcome, both authors also involve the reader in the difficulties faced by those interpreters. We are shown

50 We are told that one problem with eye witnesses is that their reports are affected by their loyalties towards one side or another (Thuc. 1.22.3). 51 See Connor 1985, 8‒13, on the construction of narrative authority through mimetic illusionism, where the reader is made to feel as though present at the events described, but also through the presentation of multiple perspectives. As Connor comments, between these two techniques there is an “inevitable tension – the rapid shifting of viewpoints risks a shattering of the experiential quality of the work” (17).

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historical interpretation in action, with all its problems, and are forced to think through our own engagement in those problems. In each case, by transforming the reader into a viewer of the text’s action, the reader becomes directly implicated in the problems of the text, with political effect. The reader is forced to think through his or her own responses to the characters and events depicted, and is invited to position himself or herself against them – often in politically conflicted ways. The use of the visual functions as a metahistorical discourse which reflects back on the position of the reader, and operates also therefore as political discourse. Just as visual experience in these texts so often raises problems of interpretation for the historical agents, so too such scenes produce a politically challenging experience for the reader.

Bibliography Babbit, F. C. (1936), Plutarch. Moralia. Vol. IV, Cambridge. Barker, E. T.E. (2009), Entering the Agon: Dissent and Authority in Homer, Historiography and Tragedy, Oxford. Cartledge, P. (1993), The Greeks. A Portrait of Self and Others, Oxford. Christ, M. R. (1994), “Herodotean Kings and Historical Enquiry”, in: Classical Antiquity 13, 167‒202. Connor, W. R. (1985), “Narrative Discourse in Thucydides”, in: M. J. Jameson (ed.), The Greek Historians. Literature and History. Papers Presented to A. E. Raubitschek, Stanford, 1–17. Crane, G. (1996), The Blinded Eye. Thucydides and the New Written Word, London. Davidson, J. (1991), “The Gaze in Polybius’ Histories”, in: JRS 81, 10‒24. de Jong, Irene J. F. (1999), “Aspects narratologiques des Histoires d’Hérodote”, in: Lalies 19, 217‒275. Dewald, C. (1990), “Review of Hartog 1988”, in: CP 85, 217‒224. Dewald, C. (1999), “The Figured Stage. Focalizing the Initial Narratives of Herodotus and Thucydides”, in: T. M. Falkner / N. Felson / D. Konstan (eds.), Contextualizing Classics. Ideology, Performance, Dialogue: Essays in Honor of John J. Peradotto, London, 221‒252. Elsner, J. (1992), “Pausanias. A Greek Pilgrim in the Roman World”, in: P&P 135, 3‒29. Elsner, J. (1994), “From the Pyramids to Pausanias and Piglet. Monuments, Travel and Writing”, in: S. Goldhill / R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 224‒254. Feldherr, A. (1998), Spectacle and Society in Livy’s History, Berkeley and London. Goldhill, S. (1998), “The Seductions of the Gaze. Socrates and his Girlfriends”, in: P. Cartledge / P. Millett / S. von Reden (eds.), Kosmos. Essays in Order, Conflict and Community in Classical Athens, Cambridge, 105‒124. Goldhill, S. (1999), “Programme Notes”, in: S. Goldhill / R. Osborne (eds.) Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge, 1‒29. Goldhill, S. (2000), “Placing Theatre in the History of Vision”, in: N. K. Rutter / B. A. Sparkes (eds.), Word and Image in Ancient Greece, Edinburgh, 161‒182.

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Greenwood, E. (2006), Thucydides and the Shaping of History, London. Grethlein, J. (2009), “How Not To Do History. Xerxes in Herodotus’ Histories”, in: AJP 130, 195‒218. Grethlein, J. (2010), The Greeks and their Past. Poetry, Oratory and History in the Fifth Century B.C.E., Cambridge. Hartog, F. (1988), The Mirror of Herodotus. The representation of the Other in the writing of history, Transl. J. Lloyd, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Kallet, L. (2001), Money and the Corrosion of Power in Thucydides, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Katz Anhalt, E. (2008), “Seeing is Believing. Four Women on Display in Herodotus’ Histories”, in: New England Classical Journal 35.4, 269‒280. Ker, J. (2000), “Solon’s Theoria and the End of the City”, in: ClAnt 19, 304‒329. Konstan, D. (1983), “The Stories in Herodotus’ Histories: Book I”, in: Helios 10, 1‒22. Konstan, D. (1987), “Persians, Greeks and Empire”, in: Arethusa 20, 59‒73. Ludwig, P. W. (2002), Eros and Polis. Desire and Community in Greek Political Theory, Cambridge. Millender, E. G. (1996), “The Teacher of Hellas”. Athenian Democratic Ideology and the “Barbarization” of Sparta in Fifth-century Greek Thought, Diss., Pennsylvania. Miltsios, N. (2016), “Sight and Seeing in Herodotus”, in: TC 8.1, 1‒16. Munson, R. V. (1991), “The Madness of Cambyses (Herodotus 3.16–38)”, in: Arethusa 24, 43‒65. Munson, R. V. (2001), Telling Wonders. Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Michigan. Nightingale, A. W. (2004), Spectacles of Truth in Classical Greek Philosophy, Cambridge. Ober, J. (1998), Political Dissent in Democratic Athens. Intellectual Critics of Popular Rule, Princeton. Pelling, C. B. R. (1997), “East is East and West is West – or are they? National Stereotypes in Herodotus”, in: Histos 1, 51‒66. Redfield, J. (1985), “Herodotus the tourist”, in: CP 80, 97‒118. Rood, T. (1998), Thucydides. Narrative and Explanation, Oxford. Rutherford, I. (1995), “Theoric crisis. The Dangers of Pilgrimage in Greek Religion and society”, in: Studi e materiali di storia delle religioni 61: 276‒292. Thomas, R. (2000), Herodotus in Context. Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. Walker, A. D. (1993), “Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography”, in: TAPA 123, 353‒377. Woodman, A. J. (1988), Rhetoric in Classical Historiography. Four studies, London.

Felix K. Maier

Dealing with the Invisible – War in Procopius Over the last few decades, scholars have paid much attention to the following issues: how do ancient historians portray their protagonists? Are Alcibiades, Hannibal or Nero described as mere instruments of fate (e.g. tykhē) or do they have total control over their actions? To what extent are they able to achieve what they set out to do? These questions are not trivial or irrelevant, but have far-reaching implications on several further issues, for example the theoretical problem of determinism versus contingency, different concepts of “learning from the past”, and the author’s philosophy of history in general. Such questions can usually only be answered by examining the narrative closely, since ancient historians tend to present their view on certain matters not as a direct theoretical digression, but in a more indirect way, through different narrative frames such as speeches, descriptions, or other kinds of implicit allusions.1 Accordingly, in order to uncover the author’s notion of history, the scholarly perspective shifted from looking for explicit statements to figuring out how the narrative enables the reader to produce possible interpretations concerning human capacities and incapacities. This also applies for the texts of perhaps the most prominent historian of Late Antiquity, Procopius of Caesarea.2 Procopius emphasises the didactic as-

1 Polybius, for example, dwells extensively upon methodical questions, but does not explicitly set out his philosophy of history, Maier (2012), 1–17. The same applies for Thucydides; besides some methodical statements in his archaeology (particularly 1.22), his readers must figure out his view of history. 2 See e.g. Toynbee 1939, 74, who ranks Procopius as “one of the four greatest historians who ever wrote in ancient Greek from beginning to end of the life-span of the Hellenic Society […] Two of the four are, of course, indisputably Thucydides and Herodotus; and most Hellenists would probably allow Polybius the third place. As for the fourth place, in the humble opinion of the writer of this study it should be assigned, not to Xenophon, but to Procopius.” Kaegi 1990, 53 considers him at least the “best Byzantine military historian of any period of Byzantine history”. Roques 2000 considered Procopius as a “lettré” who aligned his narrative according to the aesthetic principles established by Herodotus and Thucydides, in contrast Cesaretti 2008, cf. also Bjornlie 2013, 106. Fundamental are Cameron 1985, Evans 1972, Martindale 1992, Greatrex 1998; Kaldellis 2004, Brodka 2004. Further biographical approaches in Greatrex forthcoming, Bell 2013, 226–29, Treadgold 2007, 176–92, Howard-Johnston 2000, 20–21. Important studies are to follow, Meier forthcoming, Börm forthcoming. For a very useful overview of the last 10 years of scholarship 2004–2013 on Procopius, see Greatrex 2014. Procopius’ person, his status and his general views are still debated: “There exists several Procopii, one might https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-016

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pect of his work from the very beginning of his books on Justinian’s wars. The introduction to the Persian Wars,3 which deals with the military campaigns fought by the Romans against the Sasanian Dynasty from 502 to 549, highlights the didactic aspect of his work:4 The memory of these events he deemed would be a great thing and most helpful to men of the present time, and to future generations as well, in case time should ever again place men under a similar stress. For men who purpose to enter upon a war or are preparing themselves for any kind of struggle may derive some benefit from a narrative of a similar situation in history, inasmuch as this discloses the final result attained by men of an earlier day in a struggle of the same sort, and foreshadows, at least for those who are most prudent in planning, what outcome present events will probably have.

However, the question arises of how Procopius will present his readers with the lessons that he promises. At the same time that Procopius was writing, other authors were producing military manuals,5 which gave precise and detailed advice for readers interested in military matters, for example how to

say”, Greatrex 2014, 91: Some consider him as a crypto-pagan Neo-Platonist and utter opponent of Justinian, amongst them particularly Kaldellis 2004, Kaldellis 2005; some regard him as a Christian, although he sometimes refers to tykhē, Gador-Whyte 2011, Cameron 1985, 117– 19, Brodka 2004, 40–61, Scott 2013, 207, 1997, 381–84; Procopius as anti-imperialist in Kaldellis 2010, 257–59, Procopius as a “hardliner”: Lounghis 2005, 25–26, Rubin 1960, 259, Cesa 1981, 404. Brodka 1999 with emphasis on Procopius’ occasional favour for military campaigns, see also Börm 2007, 311–16. 3 The Persian War comprises the first two books of Procopius’ account of the wars of Justinian (The Wars). The publication date of the Wars is not debated: Books I–VII were published in 550/551, which means that the Persian War was finished in 551. Book VIII followed in 552/553, Treadgold 2007, 188–90, Greatrex 1994, 105–7, contra Evans 1996, 301–13. 4 Procopius, Pers. 1.1.1: ὧνπερ τὴν μνήμην αὐτὸς ᾤετο μέγα τι ἔσεσθαι καὶ ξυνοῖσον ἐς τὰ μάλιστα τοῖς τε νῦν οὖσι καὶ τοῖς ἐς τὸ ἔπειτα γενησομένοις, εἴ ποτε καὶ αὖθις ὁ χρόνος ἐς ὁμοίαν τινὰ τοὺς ἀνθρώπους ἀνάγκην διάθοιτο. τοῖς τε γὰρ πολεμησείουσι καὶ ἄλλως ἀγωνιουμένοις ὄνησίν τινα ἐκπορίζεσθαι οἵα τέ ἐστιν ἡ τῆς ἐμφεροῦς ἱστορίας ἐπίδειξις, ἀποκαλύπτουσα μὲν ὅποι ποτὲ τοῖς προγεγενημένοις τὰ τῆς ὁμοίας ἀγωνίας ἐχώρησεν, αἰνισσομένη δὲ ὁποίαν τινὰ τελευτὴν τοῖς γε ὡς ἄριστα βουλευομένοις τὰ παρόντα, ὡς τὸ εἰκὸς, ἕξει. Translations of Procopius are from Dewing 2014. This theme of “learning from history” also figures very prominently in both Herodotus and, perhaps even more, Thucydides, and certainly represents one of the key aspects of their works, for Herodotus see Grethlein 2009, Pelling 2006, Shapiro 2004, Dewald 1985, Stahl 1975; for Thucydides: Ste. Croix 1972, 28–33, Hunter 1973, 99, Dewald 1985; contra Stahl 1966, MacLeod 1983. The remarkable overlap has not been ignored by scholars who have emphasised the historiographical affinity between these authors, despite them writing more than 900 years apart, cf. the revised and recently published commentary on the Wars by Dewing 2014, 3, n. 1, Kaldellis 2004, 14, Meister 2013, 94–96, Roques 2000. The first important studies are Braun 1894 and Braun 1895. 5 E.g. the works of Urbicius, Syrianus Magister, Maurice.

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arrange cavalry battle formations, how to lure enemies into an ambush, and how to organise baggage trains. Procopius’ texts are different. They challenge the reader insofar as they must figure out for themselves why protagonists failed or succeeded in their pursuits. Procopius does not give explicit advice, but instead provides implicit counsel. Despite his introductory remarks, this counsel cannot be directly applied to other circumstances, but is rather a very comprehensive lesson, enabling the reader to deal with almost any situation they might face in the future.6 But how does Procopius achieve this goal? How can his readers learn from the past if he does not offer explicit advice or a “best practice” for specific situations? In my view, which will be my main argument in this paper, it is Procopius’ use of focalisation which, besides other techniques,7 proves an effective narrative device in re-enacting certain episodes from different perspectives to help his readers learn from the past. By constantly showing what his protagonists assumed to see, though it could not be seen, or what they did not see though they should have seen it, Procopius delivers another key message of his work: in war, failure is much more common than success.8 However, success can be achieved, although one may not count upon it.9

I My following observations, whilst representative for the whole work of Procopius, will be taken mainly from the Persian Wars. Immediately after the proem, Procopius reports some events leading up to the conflict between Rome and the Persians.10 He first describes the Persian king Perozes’ encounter with the Huns, which took place due to some bounda-

6 Kaegi 1990. 7 See here particularly Whately 2017, 68–218. 8 Procop. Goth. 3.15.11, 3.15.25, 4.1.23. 9 Procopius’ career certainly deeply influenced him. Between 527 and 542, he was consiliarius and therefore a close confidant of the powerful general Belisarius. During these years, he spent a lot of time on military campaigns and became acquainted with all aspects of warfare. Kaegi 1990, 56 rightly points out that “he possessed more military experience than any other historian of the Roman Principate or Late Empire whose writings have survived, with the possible exception of Ammianus Marcellinus”. Procopius’ text thus presents valuable insights for readers interested in political and particularly military matters. 10 Procopius, Pers. 1.2.1–11.

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ry issues approximately in 469.11 After dwelling on the social customs of the Huns, Procopius starts his report on the conflict by telling his readers about a trap set up by the Huns. Describing how the Persians invaded hostile territory, Procopius’ narrative is strikingly graphic, playing with different points of view. We are first given insight into the Huns’ plan to give the Persians the impression that they had fled. Now the Ephthalites made it appear to their enemy that they had turned to flight because they were wholly terrified by their attack, and they retired with all speed to a place which was shut in on every side by precipitous mountains, and abundantly screened by a close forest of wide-spreading trees.12

After informing us of this deceit from the Ephthalites’ point of view (δόκησιν παρεχόμενοι), Procopius then has us imagine the escaping Huns from the Persians’ perspective. The reader is able to visualise this incident clearly through Procopius’ vivid portrayal of the Huns hurrying to their posts to make sure that their trick plays out. Procopius then describes their hiding spot, but not from the vantage point of the Huns; to aid visualisation of the historical moment, he again switches perspective, illustrating the surroundings from the Persians’ perspective, or, more precisely, from the angle of a Persian warrior, who enters the valley (προϊόντι) and, of course, fails to perceive the looming danger: Now as one advanced between the mountains to a great distance, a broad way appeared in the valley, extending apparently to an indefinite distance, but at the end it had no outlet at all, but terminated in the very midst of the circle of mountains.13

Procopius then once more switches to the perspective of the other side and then back again; first he describes the Persians’ ignorance of the imminent threat, then he elaborates on the Huns’ scheme of luring their enemies deep into the valley without any chance of retreat.14 11 The Ephthalides, or the “White Huns”, were a Central Asian nomadic people, whose power reached its climax around 500. Before the incident mentioned by Procopius, Perozes had used the Ephthalites to win the throne from his brother in 457–459; see Dewing 2014, 6, Kurbanov 2013, Litvinsky 1996. 12 Procopius, Pers. 1.3.8: Ἐφθαλῖται δὲ δόκησιν παρεχόμενοι τοῖς πολεμίοις, ὅτι δὴ αὐτῶν κατωρρωδηκότες τὴν ἔφοδον ἐς φυγὴν ὥρμηνται, ᾔεσαν δρόμῳ ἐς χῶρόν τινα, ὅνπερ ὄρη ἀπότομα πανταχόθεν ἐκύκλουν, συχνοῖς τε καὶ ἀμφιλαφέσιν ἐς ἄγαν καλυπτόμενα δένδροις. 13 Procopius, Pers. 1.3.9: ἐντὸς δὲ τῶν ὀρῶν προϊόντι ὡς πορρωτάτω ὁδὸς μέν τις ἐφαίνετο ἐν μέσῳ εὐρεῖα ἐπὶ πλεῖστον διήκουσα, ἔξοδον δὲ τελευτῶσα οὐδαμῆ εἶχεν, ἀλλ’ ἐς αὐτὸν μάλιστα τὸν κύκλον τῶν ὀρῶν ἔληγε. 14 Procopius, Pers. 1.3.10 depicts Perozes’ sheer ignorance and his fatal pursuit of the enemy with all his forces: Περόζης μὲν οὖν, δόλου παντὸς ἀφροντιστήσας οὐκ ἐννοῶν τε ὡς ἐν γῇ ἀλλοτρίᾳ πορεύοιτο, ἀνεπισκέπτως ἐδίωκε. In the following paragraph 1.3.11, the perspective switches to the Huns: τῶν δὲ Οὔννων …

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During this permanent shifting of focalisation, Procopius constantly confronts his reader with different aspects of perception, deceit and appearance. The Huns want “to evoke an impression” (δόκησιν παρεχόμενοι, 1.3.8), the road “seems” to lead into an outlet (ἐφαίνετο, 1.3.9), Perozes “does not look closely enough” (ἀνεπισκέπτως, 1.3.10), the Huns “conceal themselves” (διαλαθόντες, 1.3.11) and aim at being “invisible” (οὔπω … ἔνδηλοι, 1.3.11). This dense net of coherent notions underlines the message Procopius was determined to convey: war is about perception, about seeing what is visible and what is invisible. Meanwhile, the Persian soldiers, who have been thrown into an uneasy situation of permanent uncertainty, begin to realise (αἰσθόμενοι, 1.3.12) – they feel it, they do not see it – that something is going wrong. But they do not dare to speak to Perozes and instead turn to a man called Eusebius, who accompanied the campaign as an envoy of the Roman emperor Zenon. They urge him to convince their king to retreat. Eusebius approaches Perozes and makes use of a fable to persuade the king:15 A lion once happened upon a goat bound down and bleating on a mound of no very great height, and the lion, bent upon making a feast of the goat, rushed forward with intent to seize him, but fell into a trench exceedingly deep, in which was a circular path, narrow and endless (for it had no outlet anywhere), which indeed the owners of the goat had constructed for this very purpose, and they had placed the goat above it to be a bait for the lion.16

Although the connection between this episode and the actual situation is clear and beyond any doubt, it is striking how Procopius builds up structural links, skilfully bridging reality and meta-reality. The key element here is focalisation, which Eusebius draws upon to establish this connection to illustrate to Perozes the perilous situation the Persian army finds itself confronted with. Procopius has Eusebius employ panoramas of different viewpoints, thus playing with gaze in his fable; in so doing, he exactly matches the sequence of panoptical shots in his own account of Perozes’ entry into the valley. The scene is first described from the perspective of the clueless subject (the lion), then from the view of his enemies (the owner of the goat) who have set the trap. In this way, Eusebius presents a scenario to Perozes, which prompts the Persian king to review his own situation in a different context, making him aware of potential

15 Again, Procopius᾽ wording (1.3.13) takes up his narrative of focalisation, constantly alluding to acts of visualisation and concealment: Eusebius comes into the sight of Perozes and does not hide from him the truth – ὁ δὲ (sc. Eusebius) Περόζῃ ἐς ὄψιν ἐλθὼν τύχην μὲν τὴν παροῦσαν ὡς ἥκιστα ἀπεκάλυψεν. 16 Procopius, Pers. 1.3.13.

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threats that we have already seen from the very outset of the story. The internal focalisation is doubled, enabling Perozes to perceive what he had not been able to see shortly before. This narrative produces a strong effect, reminding the reader to see what may sometimes be hidden at first glance, but is obvious at the second. Interestingly, Procopius writes ταῦτα Περόζης ἀκούσας, which alludes to another forthcoming misperception of Perozes.17 The Persian king does not realise the danger, for he is not able to use his imagination to visualise the potential threat that has been brought before his eyes by Eusebius. Instead, he just agrees to carry out Eusebius’ advice on the basis of what he heard. The consequences are not difficult to anticipate: although Perozes does not advance further, he, quite according to his blindness, must surrender to the Huns and, what might have been even worse, prostrate himself before his enemies to pledge for the peace.18 After having come to these terms with the Huns, Perozes decides to launch another attack. To make a long story short: again, the Huns set a trap, which Perozes is not able to detect, as he is not able to learn from the past to look out in order to see what is hidden at first glance. Instead, he rushes into the second trap set up by the Huns, which is again a visual trick, and the Ephthalites deceive their enemies a second time. Right at the spot where they expected the Persians to invade their territory, they have made a deep trench, concealed by reed placed over it. The Persians, “incompetent to understand the stratagem” (ξυνεῖναι τῆς ἐπιβουλῆς οὐδαμῆ ἔχοντες), “failed to notice” (ἥκιστα ᾔσθοντο) the trap and fall into the trench, amongst them Perozes and all his sons.19 Procopius tells us that, after these incidents, … as a result of this experience a law was established among the Persians that, while marching in hostile territory, they should never engage in any pursuit, even if it should happen that the enemy had been driven back by force.20

As Perozes was not able to draw his lessons from history, his successors forced themselves “to see” in the future what they might not have perceived at first

17 Procopius, Pers. 1.3.14: ταῦτα Περόζης ἀκούσας ἐς δέος ἦλθε μή ποτε Μῆδοι ἐπὶ πονηρῷ τῷ σφετέρῳ τὴν δίωξιν ἐπὶ τοὺς πολεμίους πεποίηνται. 18 Procopius, Pers. 1.3.21–22. Despite the apparently successful retreat with his army, this humiliating defeat turns out to lead to another catastrophe. Being a sting for Perozes’ identity, it prompts him to launch another attack on the Huns some years later, which also ends in a disaster. 19 Procopius, Pers. 1.4.7–14. 20 Procopius, Pers. 1.4.33: καὶ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ νόμος τέθειται Πέρσαις μή ποτε σφᾶς ἐν γῇ πολεμίᾳ ἐλαύνοντας δίωξιν ποιεῖσθαί τινα, ἢν καὶ κατὰ κράτος τοὺς ἐναντίους σφίσι τραπῆναι ξυμβαίη.

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glance, avoiding any chase of enemies in an unclear environment. Yet their “solution” does not constitute an appropriate reaction, as it narrows down the strategic and tactical options.21 Procopius’ closing note reminds the reader that the Persians would have come off better if they had paid more attention to what they did not see coming at first glance. Their new “textbook” for future campaigns makes the reader disapprove of this measure and eager to learn more about the invisible in war and illusive appearances.

II After a report on the events of 496 and 504, Procopius continues with the Roman siege on the city of Amida in 504. Again, Procopius presents us with a narrative that makes frequent use of different perspectives, and again the reader, experiencing several viewpoints which might help them learn from history, can grasp how historical protagonists fail to perceive the obvious. Procopius begins with the Roman side, relating the difficulties which they faced when trying to break the fortifications: And although they made many attempts they were unable to carry the fortress by storm, but they were on the point of accomplishing their object by starvation.22

Procopius alludes to the fact that the Romans had nearly accomplished their goal, since their enemies were on the brink of surrender due to the lack of food and water. But the Romans could not see it, because the city walls prevented them from realising that all the provisions of the besieged were gone, or because they did not try hard enough to get this intel about their enemies: The generals, however, had ascertained nothing of the straits in which the enemies were.23

Having presented two perspectives, that of the Romans and that of an omniscient narrator, we get another view, this time from the Persians’ angle:

21 It might be argued that Procopius’ closing remark did not represent reality, but that does not matter here. What matters is that Procopius tells the reader that the Persians did not see any solution other than sparing themselves the trouble of future traps with an unreasonable sanction. They could have prevented this, if they had just been more aware of the invisible aspects of war. 22 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.1: καὶ βίᾳ μὲν ἑλεῖν τὸ χωρίον, καίπερ πολλὰ ἐγκεχειρηκότες, οὐκ ἴσχυσαν, λιμῷ δὲ τοῦτο ποιεῖν ἔμελλον. 23 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.2: ἀλλ’ οἱ στρατηγοὶ οὐδὲν πεπυσμένοι ἀμφὶ τῶν πολεμίων τῇ ἀπορίᾳ.

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The Persians, on their part, not knowing what would become of them in such terrible straits, continued to conceal scrupulously their lack of the necessities of life, and made it appear that they had an abundance of all provisions, wishing to return to their homes with the reputation of honour.24

As Romans and Persians alike were not able to pass through the dense fog that was imposed on them and was hampering their perception, they agreed on a deal: the Persians left the city to the Romans and got paid a thousand pounds of gold in exchange. By adding the phrase “both parties then gladly executed the terms of the agreement”,25 Procopius emphasises the fact that the Persians missed an opportunity to get out of the matter with even better terms, since the Romans seemed to have overestimated their enemies’ condition, and the fact that the Romans missed a chance, as they could not perceive their opponents’ hardship. The Romans realise their blunder and it dawns on them that they had taken the wrong decision: And when they got into the city, their own negligence and the hardships under which the Persians had maintained themselves were discovered. For upon reckoning the amount of grain left there and the number of barbarians who had gone out, they found that rations for about seven days were left in the city.26

In this way, Procopius makes the reader too learn a lesson, but without laying blame on anyone or giving any explicit statement on how to deal with such situations. His advice does not consist of specific hints or clues, but leaves judgement to the reader’s interpretation. Every reader must draw their own conclusions to get valuable insights for future situations, to which they can apply what they have learnt from Procopius. The story does not end here though. Before arriving at the conclusion of the episode, Procopius makes a long digression to tell us about the death of

24 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.3: οἵ τε Πέρσαι, οὐκ ἔχοντες τίνες ἂν ἐν τοῖσδε τοῖς δεινοῖς γένοιντο, τὴν μὲν ἀπορίαν τῶν ἀναγκαίων ἐς τὸ ἀκριβὲς ἔκρυπτον, δόκησιν παρέχοντες ὡς πάντων σφίσι τῶν ἐπιτηδείων ἀφθονία εἴη, ἐς δὲ τὰ οἰκεῖα ξὺν τῷ εὐπρεπεῖ λόγῳ ἀναχωρεῖν ἤθελον. Again, we are confronted with the aspects of vision, appearance and hiding: ἔκρυπτον, δόκησιν παρέχοντες. 25 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.4. 26 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.20: καὶ ἐπεὶ ἐν ταύτῃ ἐγένοντο, ἥ τε αὐτῶν ὀλιγωρία καὶ Περσῶν τὸ καρτερὸν τῆς διαίτης ἐγνώσθη. σιτίων γὰρ τῶν ἐνταῦθα λελειμμένων τὸ μέτρον καὶ βαρβάρων τῶν ἐξεληλυθότων τὸν ὅμιλον λογισάμενοι ἑπτὰ μάλιστα ἡμερῶν ηὕρισκον δαπάνην ἐν τῇ πόλει ἀπολελεῖφθαι.

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Glones.27 Glones was the Persian commander of the occupying army. While the Romans laid siege to Amida, Glones was wrapped up in a subtle intrigue, which was schemed by the Romans. They had been contacted by a local farmer offering to set up a trap for the Persians by luring them outside the walls, if paid properly. The Romans agreed to the deal. Procopius then informs us about the intrigue, describing how the farmer went into the city of Amida: “He then tore his garments in a dreadful manner, and, assuming the aspect of one who had been weeping, entered the city”.28 The farmer manages to convince Glones to send out 200 men to capture some Romans who, the farmer tells him, are pillaging the settlements outside the walls of Amida in small groups. The Persian commander, being eager to seize an unexpected opportunity to demoralise the Roman army, has no suspicions. He relies on appearances (ἐοικώς), not checking the facts behind this chance that suddenly shows up. Glones rushes out of the walls with his men. And when they passed the spot where the Romans were lying in wait, without being observed by Glones or any of the Persians, he roused the Romans from their ambuscade and pointed out to them the enemy. And when the Persians saw the men coming against them, they were astounded at the suddenness of the thing, and were in much distress what to do.29

To no surprise to the reader, all Persians were killed. Again, Procopius tells us a story about deception, about the failure to see what is going on or to realise a potential danger that is looming. The significance of this episode for Procopius can hardly be overestimated, since it is as long as the rest of the account of the siege. However, it informs us about a process that certainly did not change anything, since nothing resulted from the death of Glones. Neither were the Romans able to launch a decisive attack immediately afterwards nor were the Persians at despair. Why then did Procopius halt his narrative to tell us this story? When reading this episode, the reader realises that in war, as has been pointed out earlier, it is very hard to achieve one’s goals as one is constantly confronted by different appearances and impressions, which have to be constantly evaluated. The

27 The digression should not be overlooked or considered as a mere interruption of the narrative for entertainment. The manifold links it displays to the previous and following accounts lead rather to the conclusion that it has a particular function of bringing the reader’s awareness to the dynamic interaction between seeing and being seen. 28 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.6: καὶ ὃς τά τε ἱμάτια δεινῶς διαρρήξας καὶ δεδακρυμένῳ ἐοικὼς ἐς τὴν πόλιν εἰσῆλθε. 29 Procopius, Pers. 1.9.15.

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risk of at some point being deceived or deluded is very high. However, Procopius also makes it clear that success is possible, although not guaranteed and often achieved by sacrifice. This will be the shown in the next section.

III In summer 541, the Roman chief commander Belisarius attempted to capture the Persian city Sisauranon. Looking closely at Procopius’ description of Belisarius’ methods, the reader immediately feels a remarkable contrast to how the Romans tried to conquer Amida some years before. Unlike the Romans, what I analysed earlier, Belisarius tries to find out what he cannot see: And at that time Belisarius captured some of the Persians and learned from them that those who were inside the fortress were altogether out of provisions.30

Procopius then describes Belisarius’ conclusions: For they do not observe the custom which is followed in the cities of Daras and Nisibis, where they put away the annual food-supply in public store-houses, and now that a hostile army had fallen upon them unexpectedly they had not anticipated the event by carrying in any of the necessities of life.31

Having fully understood the Persian shortage of food, Belisarius is able to see what he could not see before. There is thus a striking contrast to the passage about the Romans laying siege to Amida previously, in which the Roman failure to discover that the enemy was short of starvation and would perhaps surrender within a couple of days had seemed an unavoidable mistake. Now, having read about Belisarius, the reader realises that it is sometimes possible to see what you cannot see at first glance. Belisarius can conquer the city, avoiding the same blunder the Romans committed some time ago. But the story goes on, displaying the even greater “foresight” of Belisarius. He summons his generals and officers for a meeting to discuss a further advance into Persian territory. One of his commanders, Ioannes, voices his opinion, emphasising the fact that the Roman troops would be too weak if an enemy, though currently not visible, appeared. Procopius has Ioannes summarise his opinion as follows:

30 Procopius, Pers. 2.19.19: τότε δὲ Βελισάριος τῶν τινας Περσῶν ξυλλαβὼν, ἐνδεῖν τοῖς ἐν τῷ φρουρίῳ τὰ ἐπιτήδεια παντελῶς ἔμαθεν. 31 Procopius, Pers. 2.19.20.

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“For when men have come into danger and especially such danger as this, it is downright folly for them to devote their thoughts not to safety, but to opposition to the enemy”.32

At this point, the reader has the same knowledge as the Roman army; in a thought experiment while reading the episode, it might be as tempting for them as for the Roman general to brush aside the warning of Ioannes. The opportunity to gain even more glory is within reach; only a vague principle that might not even apply to the present situation stands in the way, but not concrete knowledge or intelligence. But as tempting as this opportunity may be, Belisarius gives in and refrains from seeking more glory, as he realises that Ioannes is right: the Romans are not able to control the situation, since they have neither a good view on the respective territory nor any intelligence as to what is going on there.33 Thus, Belisarius’ abandonment turns out to be an instructive example of a proper judgment of the visible and invisible, prudently balancing chances and risks, despite the seduction of overstepping the mark due to previous triumphs and successes. To convey to the reader that such a sound assessment is not so easy to achieve, Procopius presents another example. In a passage quite close to the incident of Sisausaron, the reader is able to re-experience the fate of the famous Roman general Narses. In late 542, Narses took up position with his army around the city Doubios, and, “confident in his strength of position, he shut himself in”,34 meaning on a hill. Having learned that the Persians, who were said to linger around in the same territory, had withdrawn, Narses was indignant, and he heaped reproaches and abuse upon his fellow-commanders for their hesitation. And others, too, began to do the very same thing, casting insults upon one another; and from then on, giving up all thought of battle and danger, they were eager to plunder the country thereabout.35

The reader immediately realises that Narses’ decision will turn out to be fatal. The Roman commander does not care about the danger that is looming, he does not see what happens around him nor does he seem interested in seeing it. This time Procopius does not switch to the Persians to describe their preparations; instead, he makes a very implicit prolepsis, criticising the Romans for

32 Procopius, Pers. 2.19.43: τοῖς γὰρ ἐς κίνδυνον ἄλλως τε καὶ τοιοῦτον καθεστηκόσι μὴ τὴν σωτηρίαν διασκοπεῖσθαι, ἀλλὰ τὴν ἐς τοὺς πολεμίους ἐπιβουλὴν πολλὴ ἄνοια. 33 Belisarius might have saved the previous situation by smart acting, but he knows that his options and means are limited. 34 Procopius, Pers. 2.25.5. 35 Procopius, Pers. 2.25.11–12.

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their neglect: “[they were] giving up all thought of battle and danger”. The reader should conclude from this implicit statement that the situation is critical. The reader does not see what the Persians do but, in contrast with Narses, is instructed by Procopius to foresee what might happen: They moved forward in complete confusion; for neither had they any countersign among themselves, as is customary in such perilous situations, nor were they arranged in their proper divisions.36

Some hours later, the Romans are informed that the enemy is near. Again, the situation is unfavourable, as the Romans do not actually see where the Persians are hiding; in sharp contrast to Belisarius however, the Romans do not take their lack of vision into account. Procopius tells us that “the generals considered it altogether disgraceful and unmanly to turn back with an army of such great size”.37 The following course of events happens according to what the reader might have expected, “according” in the sense that the reader is already able to anticipate what will happen after having studied the episodes beforehand. The Persians break out from a hiding spot, which was also unknown to the reader, and inflict tremendous damage on the Romans. Narses dies. But he could have avoided this catastrophe, if he had followed a rational thought process for dangerous situations that pose a serious threat due to the lack of visibility.38 Instead, he surrendered to the vain and overambitious belief of his fellow generals, who preferred to trust only what they saw – the quantity of their army – rather than calculating with what they did not see: the hidden troops of their enemies.

IV All these passages perfectly illustrate the message that Procopius wishes to impart to the reader: war is a stage, on which only a few things can be seen, but on which many things are invisible. This leads to severe and dangerous 36 Procopius, Pers. 2.25.13–14. 37 Procopius, Pers. 2.25.16: οἱ δὲ στρατηγοὶ ἀναστρέφειν μὲν ξὺν στρατῷ τοσούτῳ τὸ πλῆθος αἰσχρόν τε καὶ ἄνανδρον ὅλως ᾤοντο εἶναι. 38 This rational sense is presented in another speech by Belisarius (2.19.8), where he points out that it might be extremely dangerous for Roman troops during military operations in foreign territory, as their enemies will hide themselves and make sudden ambushes in order to demoralise the invaders: ἐπίπροσθεν γὰρ ἰοῦσιν ἡμῖν ἐνθένδε τε καὶ ἐκ Νισίβιδος πόλεως ἑπόμενοι λάθρα τῶν πολεμίων τινὲς ἐν χωρίοις, ὡς τὸ εἰκὸς, κακουργήσουσιν ἐπιτηδείως αὐτοῖς πρὸς ἐνέδραν ἢ καὶ ἄλλην τινὰ ἐπιβουλὴν ἔχουσιν.

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situations, miscalculations and misjudgements.39 Within this dense fog that clouds the sight, historical agents cannot consider themselves to be in control over everything. Rather, they have to take into account a substantial amount of invisible and unforeseeable incidents that may directly affect their plans and intentions, causing them to fail. His descriptions of past events can also however reveal how we can cope with these limits of perception; Procopius introduces and presents some characters who are able to meet the challenges of the fog of war (for example, Belisarius). Intriguingly, it is not by seeing something, but rather by pondering, reasoning and considering, that these successful characters can overcome the obstacles of the unseen. Belisarius proves himself prudent enough to know his own limits, but not because he is able to see things. Instead, he calculates with the unseen (the hidden troops of the enemy), which makes him abandon the operation. In this way, Procopius delivers a clear message: if one builds up a sense for the unseen, for the invisible, it is possible to overcome the manifold challenges war confronts us with. However, readers who expect Procopius to discuss this aspect with a theoretical digression will be disappointed. Instead, he produces a subtle and brilliant text that enables the reader to learn from history through the perspective of the characters. Again and again, he challenges his reader to assess every situation from the perspective of the persons involved, sometimes from a superior point of view, sometimes through internal focalisation. This leads to manifold experiences, as the reader must weigh the individual visions against their knowledge as an omniscient reader. In other cases, being confronted only with the restricted view of a character, the reader is prompted to consider what they would do in his stead. Often left in suspense by a deficit of information, the reader can grasp a feeling of how tricky and delicate such situations that the historical protagonists were confronted with were and are. It is this important feature of Procopius’ narrative that proves to be the signature aspect of his text and with which the historian fulfils what Procopius promised in the proem of his work, where he alludes to the didactic aspect of his text.

V In the last section, I would like to elaborate on this issue of success in war. From the passages which I have analysed it has become clear that Procopius wanted his readers to recognise that success in war is possible, but very hard 39 Above all, these failures can also be influenced and triggered by other aspects, such as the necessity to prove oneself not a coward, which is perfectly illustrated in the Narses episode.

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to achieve.40 In this sense, it is interesting to compare Procopius with two prominent Greek predecessors of the Classical and Hellenistic era. Such a comparison is justified as Procopius obviously refers to Thucydides and Polybius in many ways. If we look at the first sentence of Procopius’ book on the Persian Wars, we are struck by how familiar it sounds: Procopius of Caesarea has written the history of the wars which Justinian, Emperor of the Romans, waged against the barbarians of the East and of the West.41

Procopius here clearly presents himself as successor of Thucydides; his following agenda of “learning from the past”, mentioned above, has a close affiliation to Thucydides’ idea of history as a study tool for future times.42 But Procopius is not just a successor of Thucydides concerning these aspects. Procopius’ narrative – as has been shown by my previous two examples – bursts with graphic descriptions and internal focalisations. His text prompts the reader to learn about historical events through the perceptions of characters, putting them right in the action. The readers’ and the characters’ experiences are thus aligned. In this way, like Thucydides, Procopius makes extensive use of focalisation in order to show his readers how his protagonists either failed or succeeded. Jonas Grethlein has recently shown how Thucydides’ text excels as a historiographical work by the same characteristics that I have analysed in Procopius;

40 Other passages: E.g. Goth. 2.17.3 or 2.28.2. 41 Procop. Pers. 1.1: Προκόπιος Καισαρεὺς τοὺς πολέμους ξυνέγραψεν, οὓς Ἰουστινιανὸς ὁ Ῥωμαίων βασιλεὺς πρὸς βαρβάρους διήνεγκε τούς τε ἑῴους καὶ ἑσπερίους. 42 See the aforementioned passage from Procop. Pers. 1.1.1. From Thucydides, Procopius bought the first words of his text, relating to the author, to the content and the specification of the content. Cf. Thuc. 1.1: Θουκυδίδης Ἀθηναῖος ξυνέγραψε τὸν πόλεμον τῶν Πελοποννησίων καὶ Ἀθηναίων, ὡς ἐπολέμησαν πρὸς ἀλλήλους. Luc. Hist. Conscr. 15 complains in the second century that too many authors used such formulas at the beginning of their historiographical works, thereby trying to evoke the glory of their prominent predecessors. However, this formula had already been established and “there were no alternative models”, Kaldellis 2004, 17; see also concerning formulaic phrases in introductions Marincola 1997, 271–75. From the age of Justinian onwards, the situation slightly changed: other conceptions of historiography were developed, which were different to those of the classical authors. For example, the ecclesiastical history laid emphasis on topics different to those of war and politics, like in Eusebius; his successors did not trace their origins inevitably back to Herodotus and Thucydides, Eusebius, H.E. 5, proem, Sokrates, E.H. 5, proem, Sozomenus, E.H. 1.1, Croke/Emmet 1983, 6–7. Thus, Procopius’ introduction should get more attention than it is used to, as it displays his adherence to the classical authors, which goes beyond the similar themes of war and politics. For congruencies between Procopius and Polybius cf. e.g. Pers. 1.1.1 with Plb. 1.1, 6.2.8, 12.25b.3.

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Thucydides subtly plays with different perspectives to enable his readers to learn from history.43 Through internal focalisation in particular, Thucydides lets his reader re-experience the past through the perceptions of the characters that were part of historical events.44 In doing so, Thucydides accomplishes what Gorgias ascribed to the power of the logos: to depict a reality which equals real life experiences.45 The reader can thus re-enact the historical moment and – as a ktema es aiei – learn from history as from personal experience. Thucydides thereby also fulfils the requirement that Lucian will later claim as one of the most important tasks of a historiographer, to visualise the past events as vividly as possible: The task of the historian is similar: to give a fine arrangement to events and illuminate them as vividly as possible. And when a man who hears him thinks thereafter that he is actually seeing what is being described and then praises him – then it is that the work is perfect and has brought our Phidias of history proper praise.46

Grethlein has also pointed out the aspect of enargeia, which features very prominently in Thucydides’ text, produced by his artful reports on the events that happened.47 Thucydides increases this effect with his graphic descriptions, which help the reader to visualise the historical scenes the characters find themselves confronted with.48 Procopius’ vivid visualisations of certain

43 Grethlein 2013, 29–52. Previous studies on this topic by Montgomery 1965, 45–95, Schneider 1974, Hunter 1973, Westlake 1989, 201–23, Lang 1995, Rood 1998, 61–82, Stahl 2003. 44 See for example Phormion’s sea battle in 2.83.2–3. Grethlein 2013, 35 observes similar evidence to what I have underlined with respect to Procopius: “Thucydides reports not so much the movements themselves but rather the character’s perceptions, expectations and motives.” 45 Gorgias, 82 B11.9 DK: ἧς τοὺς ἀκούοντας εἰσῆλθε καὶ φρίκη περίφοβος καὶ ἔλεος πολύδακρυς καὶ πόθος φιλοπενθής, ἐπ’ ἀλλοτρίων τε πραγμάτων καὶ σωμάτων εὐτυχίαις καὶ δυσπραγίαις ἴδιόν τι πάθημα διὰ τῶν λόγων ἔπαθεν ἡ ψυχή (“Into those who hear it comes fearful fright and tearful pity and mournful longing, and at the successes and failures of others’ affairs and bodies the mind suffers, through the words, a suffering of its own”). Translation from MacDowell 1991. 46 Lucian, Hist. Conscr. 51: Τοιοῦτο δή τι καὶ τὸ τοῦ συγγραφέως ἔργον – εἰς καλὸν διαθέσθαι τὰ πεπραγμένα καὶ εἰς δύναμιν ἐναργέστατα ἐπιδεῖξαι αὐτά. καὶ ὅταν τις ἀκροώμενος οἴηται μετὰ ταῦτα ὁρᾶν τὰ λεγόμενα καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο ἐπαινῇ, τότε δὴ τότε ἀπηκρίβωται καὶ τὸν οἰκεῖον ἔπαινον ἀπείληφε τὸ ἔργον τῷ τῆς ἱστορίας Φειδίᾳ. Translations of Lucian are from Fowler and Fowle 1905. 47 Apart from Grethlein 2013, see Otto 2009, Zangara 2004, Manieri 1998, Walker 1993, Zanker 1981 on this aspect in ancient Greek literature. 48 Grethlein 2013, 32 brings up the example of the description before the report on the sea battle in the gulf of Acarnia Thuc. (2.84.3). The battle itself is only summarised, whereas the setting of the stage is described in detail.

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viewpoints trigger the same effect based upon this concept of enargeia, for example the landscapes in the episode with Perozes, thus producing an immense mimetic power. Both Thucydides and Procopius set up their narrative to trigger this effect in a similar fashion. Neither author focuses on the mere events, reporting what has happened, but rather they bring out the characters’ perceptions, expectations and motives, reporting how something happened from different angles. Both authors vary the speed of narration; sometimes they shorten their account to a nutshell, providing the reader with a minimum of information to grasp the course of events, but then elaborate extensively on details that, in their view, are significant for the reader to understand history.49 However, in a slight contrast to Thucydides, Procopius seems to hint at successful actions more often.50 He also points out how we can deal with these limits of perception. In this regard, Procopius displays a concept of “learning from history” similar to Polybius, who, also in contrast to Thucydides, underlines the possibility of being successful despite an overwhelming amount of potential obstacles.51 But both Polybius and Procopius make it clear that there are no specific rules that can be applied to particular contexts. Instead, they underline the best lesson which their readers, mostly political or military men, can learn from history, that is, “negative capability”, as one J. Keats coined it: “Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”.52

Bibliography Bell, P. N. (2013), Social Conflict in the Age of Justinian, Oxford. Bjornlie, S. M. (2013), Politics and Tradition between Rome, Ravenna and Constantinople. A Study of Cassiodorus and the “Variae”, 527–554, Cambridge. Börm, H. (2007), Prokop und die Perser, Stuttgart. Börm, H. (forthcoming): Procopius and the East, in: M. Meier (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Procopius, Leiden/Boston.

49 In Procopius, as I already mentioned, the whole account on siege of Amida is no longer than the Glones-episode. Thus Procopius seems to give more weight to a focalised narrative than the actual description of events. 50 See particularly Stahl 2003, who underlines Thucydides’ main intention of emphasising the limits of human perception and insight. See also Maier 2012, 313–15. Even if there are some characters (like Perikles or Nicias) who seem to be able cope with unforeseeable things, they fail in the end, MacLeod 1983, Dewald 1985, 59–60. 51 Cf. e.g. Plb. 9.12.1 or 9.12.3, Maier 2012, 277–318, Maier 2013. 52 Keats 1899, 277.

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Braun, H. (1884), Die Nachahmung Herodots durch Prokop. Beilage zum Jahresbericht 1893/94 des K. Alten Gymnasiums zu Nürnberg, Nürnberg. Braun, H. (1885), Procopius Caesariensis quatenus imitatus sit Thucydidem, Diss., Erlangen. Brodka, D. (1999), “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee ‘der Reconquista’”, in: Eos 86, 243–255. Brodka, D. (2004), Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, Frankfurt. Cameron, A. (1985), Procopius and the Sixth Century, London. Cesa, M. (1981), “La politica di Giustiniano verso l’Occidente nel giudizio di Procopio”, in: Athenaeum 59, 389–409. Cesaretti, P. (2008), “All’ombra di una preterizione. Proc. Aed. I 1,1”, in: Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici 45, 153–178. Croke, B. / A. M. Emmet (1983), “Historiography in Late Antiquity. An Overview”, in: B. Croke / A. M. Emmet (eds.), History and Historians in Late Antiquity, New York, 1–12. Dewald, C. (1985), “Practical Knowledge and the Historian’s Role in Herodotus and Thucydides”, in: M. H. Jameson (ed.), The Greek Historians. Papers Presented to A. E. Raubitschek, Saratoga, 47–63. Dewing, H. B. (2014), The Wars of Justinian, Revised and Modernized, with an Introduction and Notes by Anthony Kaldellis, Cambridge. Evans, J. A. S. (1972), Procopius, New York. Evans, J. A. S. (1996), “The Dates of Procopius’ Works: A Recapitulation of the Evidence”, in: GRBS 37, 301–313. Fowler, H. W. / F. G. Fowler (1905), The Works of Lucian of Samosata. Complete with exceptions specified in the preface. 4 vols. Oxford. Gador-Whyte, S. (2011), “Procopius and Justinian’s Propaganda”, in: N. Geoffrey / L. Garland (eds.), Basileia: Essays on Imperium and Culture in Honour of E.M. and M. J. Jeffreys, Brisbane, 109–119. Greatrex, G. B. (1994), “The Dates of Procopius’ Works”, in: BMGS 18, 101–114. Greatrex, G. B. (1998), Rome and Persia at War, 502–532, London. Greatrex, G. (2014): Perceptions of Procopius in Recent Scholarship, in: Histos 2014, 76–121. Greatrex, G. B. (forthcoming), “Procopius: Life and Works”, in: M. Meier (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Procopius, Leiden. Grethlein, J. (2009), “How Not To Do History. Xerxes in Herodotus’ Histories”, in: AJP 130, 195–218. Grethlein, J. (2013), Experience and Teleology in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. Howard-Johnston, J. D. (2000), “The Education and Expertise of Procopius”, in: AnTard 8, 19–30. Hunter, V. (1973), Thucydides the Artful Reporter, Toronto. Kaegi, W. (1990), “Procopius the Military Historian”, in: Byzantinische Forschungen 15, 53–85. Kaldellis, A. (2004), Procopius of Caesarea. Tyranny, History, and Philosophy at the End of Antiquity, Philadelphia. Kaldellis, A. (2005), “Republican Theory and Political Dissidence in Ioannes Lydos”, in: BMGS 29, 1–16. Kaldellis, A. (2010), “Procopius’ Persian War: a Thematic and Literary Analysis”, in: R. Macrides (ed.), History as Literature in Byzantium, Aldershot, 253–272. Karpozilos, A. (1997), Βυζαντινοί ιστορικοί και χρονογράφοι, vol. 1, Athens. Keats, J. (1899). The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats, Cambridge Edition, Houghton. Kurbanov, A. (2013), The Archaeology and History of the Hephthalites, Bonn.

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Lang, M. L. (1995), “Participal Motivation in Thucydides”, in: Mnemosyne 48, 48–65. Litvinsky, B. A. (1996), “The Hephthalite Empire”, in: B. A. Litvinsky (ed.), The Crossroads of Civilizations. A.D. 250 to 750, Paris. Lounghis, T. (2005), Die kriegerisch gesinnte Partei der senatorischen Opposition in den Jahren 326 bis 529, in: L. M. Hoffmann (ed.), Zwischen Polis und Provinz und Peripherie: Beiträge zur byzantinischen Geschichte und Kultur, Wiesbaden, 25–36. MacDowell, D. M. (1991), Gorgias: Encomium of Helen, Bristol. MacLeod, C. W. (1983), “Thucydides and Tragedy”, in: Id., Collected essays, Oxford, 140–158. Maier, F. K. (2012), “Überall mit dem Unerwarteten rechnen” – Die Kontingenz historischer Prozesse bei Polybios, Munich. Maier, F. K. (2013), “Learning From History Para Doxan: an Approach to Polybius’ Manifold View of the Past”, in: Histos 6, 144–168. Manieri, A. (1998), L’immagine poetica nella teoria degli antichi, phantasia ed enargeia, Pisa. Marincola, J. (1997), Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. Martindale, R. (1992), “Prokopios von Caesarea”, in: The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire (PLRE), Bd. 3B, Cambridge, 1060–1066. Meier, M. (forthcoming), Brill’s Companion to Procopius, Leiden. Meister, K. (2013), Thukydides als Vorbild der Historiker. Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Paderborn. Montgomery, H. (1965), Gedanke und Tat. Zur Erzähltechnik bei Herodot, Thukydides, Xenophon und Arrian, Lund. Otto, N. (2009), Enargeia. Untersuchung zur Charakteristik alexandrinischer Dichtung, Stuttgart. Pelling, C. (2006), “Educating Croesus. Talking and Learning in Herodotus’ Lydian logos”, in: CA 25, 141–177. Rood, T. (1998), Thucyidides. Narrative and Explanation, Oxford. Roques, D. (2000), “Histoire et rhétorique dans l’œuvre de Procope de Césarée. Procope estil historien?”, in: U. Criscuolo / R. Maisano (eds.), Categorie linguistiche e concettuali delle storiografia bizantina, Naples, 9–39. Rubin, B. (1960), Das Zeitalter Iustinians, vol. 1, Berlin. Schneider, C. (1974), Information und Absicht bei Thukydides. Untersuchung zur Motivation des Handelns, Göttingen. Scott, R. (2013), “The Treatment of Religion in Sixth-Century Byzantine Historians and Some Questions of Religious Affiliation”, in: B. Bitton-Ashkelony / L. Perrone (eds.), Between Personal and Institutional Religion: Self, Doctrine and Practice in Late Antique Eastern Christianity, Turnhout, 195–225. Shapiro, S. (2004), “Learning Through Suffering. Human Wisdom in Herodotus”, in: CJ 89, 349–355. Stahl, H.-P. (1966), Thukydides. Die Stellung des Menschen im geschichtlichen Prozess, Munich. Stahl, H.-P. (1975), “Learning Through Suffering? Croesus’ Conversations in the Histories of Herodotus”, in: YClS 24, 1–36. Stahl, H.-P. (2003), Thucydides. Man’s Place in History, Swansea. Ste. Croix, G. de (1972), Origins of the Peloponnesian War, London. Toynbee, A. (1939), Study of History, London. Treadgold, W. (2007), The Early Byzantine Historians, Basingstoke.

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Walker, A. D. (1993), “Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography”, in: TAPA 123, 353–377. Westlake, H. D. (1989), Studies in Thucydides and Greek History, Bristol. Whately, C. (2017): Battles and Generals. Combat, Culture, and Didacticism in Procopius’ Wars, Leiden. Zangara, A. (2004), “Mettre en images le passé. L’ambiguïté et l’efficacité de l’‘enargeia’ dans le récit historique”, in: Métis 2, 251–272. Zanker, G. (1981), “Enargeia in the Ancient Criticism of Poetry”, in: RhM 124, 297–311.

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Being or Appearing Virtuous? The Challenges of Leadership in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia The opposition between seeming and being or, more broadly, between appearance and reality, is an old and famous one. John Yolton begins his essay Realism and Appearances by noting that “the distinction between appearance and reality is as old as the history of philosophy”.1 Indeed, Plato radicalized this distinction, by introducing the world of ideas (or forms), as opposed to the visible world.2 But this issue has a longer history, which can be traced back to the beginnings of Greek literature. In the Iliad Hector denigrates his brother Paris, by dwelling on the opposition between his external (visible) beauty and the lack of internal virtues, such as courage.3 Similarly, in the Odyssey, the scene with Odysseus as a beggar in the palace of Alcinous exemplifies the insufficiency of appearance as a criterion by which to judge an individual: Alcinous comments on the fact that somebody may have a deplorable appearance, and still dispose of important intellectual and moral qualities.4 More radically, the poet Archilochus goes so far as to dismiss external beauty altogether: in one of his well-known poems he claims emphatically that he does not valorize beauty as a trait of a general, but pays attention to his heart instead.5 These authors do not, of course, present theoretical discussions on the issue of reality and appearance, but their works betray an early awareness that being cannot be reduced to appearance, or the immediately visible. A careful examination of the relevant vocabulary allows a more complex picture to emerge. In this chatpter I will concentrate on the verbs δοκῶ and

1 2 3 4 5

Yolton 2000, 1. See indicatively Moravcskik 2000, El Murr 2013. Homer, Il. 3.44–45. Homer, Od. 8.169–73. Archilochus, 60D, 114W2.

Note: An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Conference Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature (Freiburg, December 2014). I thank the audience and the anonymous referees of this volume for useful comments, and especially Douglas Cairns and Stelios Chronopoulos, for critical remarks and suggestions. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the financial support of my research by the Foundation of Education and European Culture (IPEP), Athens, Greece. All translations are mine unless where specified otherwise. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-017

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φαίνομαι. Although these verbs (and their derivatives) expressed opposing ideas in Homer (the first denoting a perception, the second an appearance, which is, however, not illusory, or even a visible representation of an internal quality),6 and cannot be considered synonyms stricto sensu,7 by the fourth century they had come to signify different levels of opposition to reality: δοκεῖν and φαίνεσθαι (seeming, appearing) as opposed to εἶναι (being), δόξα (perception) as opposed to true ἐπιστήμη (knowledge).8 Already Aeschylus, in a famous verse, privileges being over seeming.9 Further, Euripides establishes a distinction between seeming and the truth,10 whereas Aristophanes also exploits this opposition in the context of a humorous interplay with his spectators.11 In historiography the verb δοκῶ (translated as “think”, “have the impression”, etc.) usually foreshadows the failure of plans or miscalculated judgments: the protagonists of the historians’ narratives think or have the impression that they are happy or successful, but this belief turns out to be an illusion.12 Similarly, the verb φαίνομαι often points to a subjective perception, which, however, may or may not correspond to reality.13 The rivalry between

6 See Prier 1989, 38–42, 56–64, for the two verbs in Homer. For the epic gaze, see now Lovatt 2013. 7 LSJ9, s. v. δοκῶ give two definitions: a) think, form an opinion, and b) consider likely (with personal dative and infinitive). See also, LSJ9, s. v. φαίνομαι: a) come to light, b) appear to be so (with infinitive), c) be manifest in (with participle). Only the definition b) of φαίνομαι coincides with the definitions of δοκῶ. Chantraine (1968) 290–91, translates δόξα as “attente”, “opinion, qui peut être juste, distinguée de la science” and “réputation”. LSJ9 also note the occurrences of a joint reference to δοκῶ and φαίνομαι. In these cases the two verbs are used as synonyms (Euripides, Hipp. 1571, Thucydides, 1.122, Plato, Phdr. 269d, Erx. 399c, Xenophon, Mem. 2.1.22). 8 For knowledge and reality in Plato, see White 1976, Chen 1992; cf. Rutherford 2004. 9 Aeschylus, Sept. 592: οὐ γὰρ δοκεῖν ἄριστος, ἀλλ’ εἶναι θέλει “he does not want to appear, but to be excellent”. 10 Euripides, Or. 233–36: {Hλ.} ἦ κἀπὶ γαίας ἁρμόσαι πόδας θέλεις, | χρόνιον ἴχνος θείς; μεταβολὴ πάντων γλυκύ. |{Ορ.} μάλιστα· δόξαν γὰρ τόδ’ ὑγιείας ἔχει· | κρεῖσσον δὲ τὸ δοκεῖν, κἂν ἀληθείας ἀπῆι. “{El.} Will you set your feet on earth and take a step? Change is the most pleasant thing. {Or}. Yes, because this has the semblance of health; and semblance is better, even if it is far from the truth”. 11 Aristophanes, Ach. 440–444: Δεῖ γάρ με δόξαι πτωχὸν εἶναι τήμερον, | εἶναι μὲν ὅσπερ εἰμί, φαίνεσθαι δὲ μή· | τοὺς μὲν θεατὰς εἰδέναι μ’ ὅς εἰμ’ ἐγώ, | τοὺς δ’ αὖ χορευτὰς ἠλιθίους παρεστάναι, | ὅπως ἂν αὐτοὺς ῥηματίοις σκιμαλίσω. “Today I should look poor, be what I am, but not appear to be. Spectators will know well who I am, but the members of the Chorus are foolish, so I could deceive them with peculiar phrases”. 12 See, for instance, Croesus in Herodotus (Herodotus, 1.31) or Nicias in Thucydides (Thucydides, 7.77.2), both of whom cherish false notions about their happiness. 13 Homer, Od. 15.25: δμῳάων ἥ τίς τοι ἀρίστη φαίνεται εἶναι, and 11.336: Φαίηκες, πῶς ὔμμιν ἀνὴρ ὅδε φαίνεται εἶναι εἶδός τε μέγεθός τε ἰδὲ φρένας ἔνδον ἐΐσας;

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Plato and the sophists gave a new direction to this debate: on the one hand, sophists and orators tend to privilege appearance and relativize truth; on the other hand, and in fierce reaction to them, Plato defends the superiority of the intelligible (i.e. not visible) world.14 Having these preliminaries in mind, we can now turn to Xenophon. Xenophon was a prolific writer who experimented with different genres and put forth original ideas and political plans. His works reflect the intellectual disputes of the fourth century BC, but also continue and adapt themes and motives of his predecessors. It would thus be interesting to enquire whether he had something to contribute to the debate about seeming and being. In fact, this topic occupies a central position in the Cyropaedia, which is why this work will be the focus of the present study. The Cyropaedia narrates the life and deeds of Cyrus the Great, the founder of the Persian Empire (600–530 BCE). Xenophon relates Cyrus’ education, military successes and establishment of empire, while at the same time adorning his narrative with philosophical discussions and theoretical reflections.15 The issue of seeming and being is problematized for the first time in a programmatic conversation between the young Cyrus and his father Cambyses, in the course of which the latter gives his son advice on leadership and, more specifically, on the importance of gaining the willing submission of his followers. The Persian King and the young Cyrus converse as follows: “You mean to say, father, that nothing is more effective toward keeping one men’s obedient than to seem to be more prudent than them? (Λέγεις σύ, ὦ πάτερ, εἰς τὸ πειθομένους ἔχειν οὐδὲν εἶναι ἀνυσιμώτερον τοῦ φρονιμώτερον δοκεῖν εἶναι τῶν ἀρχομένων.)” “Yes,” said he, “that is just what I mean”. “And how, pray, father, could one most quickly acquire such a reputation for oneself? (Καὶ πῶς δή τις ἄν, ὦ πάτερ, τοιαύτην δόξαν τάχιστα περὶ αὑτοῦ παρασχέσθαι δύναιτο;).” “There is no shorter road, my son”, said he, “than really to be prudent in those things in which you wish to seem to be prudent (Οὐκ ἔστιν ἔφη, ὦ παῖ, συντομωτέρα ὁδὸς 〈ἐπὶ τό〉, περὶ ὧν βούλει, δοκεῖν φρόνιμος εἶναι ἢ τὸ γενέσθαι περὶ τούτων φρόνιμον)”.16

14 See indicatively Isocrates, Antid. 280, for the connection between appearance and persuasion, and contrast Platon, Phd. 65e7–66a7. See McCoy 2008, for Plato’s relationship with the sophists, and Verdenius 1981 and Spatharas 2008, for deception in Gorgias, more specifically. Cf. Haskins (this volume). See also Ebert 1974, Sigurdarson 1998, for the contrast between knowledge and opinion in Plato. For the concept of truth in Plato, see Szarf 1998, Aronadio 2002. 15 The genre of the Cyropaedia is difficult to define. In Tamiolaki 2017, 180–189 I suggest that it could be described as historiography of a socratic type. 16 Xenophon, Cyr. 1.6.21–22. Translations of the Cyropaedia are from Ambler 2001 or Miller 1994, often with modifications. All italics are mine.

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This conversation (which is much longer than the passage cited) has sparked controversy among commentators of the Cyropaedia. According to some critics, Cambyses privileges being over seeming and the Cyropaedia is intended to demonstrate that Cyrus eventually does not meet up to the ideal advocated by his father.17 More recently, V. Gray attacked this line of interpretation, by positing that the distinction between seeming and being is not crucial and that Xenophon can employ the two verbs as synonyms.18 Both these approaches are based, however, on selective analyses of certain scenes of Xenophon’s works and fail to take fully into account the broader connotations of the terms δοκῶ and φαίνομαι in his work. This paper is intended to fill this gap. In what follows, I will offer first a tentative categorization of the usages of the verbs δοκῶ and φαίνομαι in the Cyropaedia.19 Terms more directly related to sight (such as ὁράω and θεῶμαι) will also be occasionally considered, but I will not treat them in detail, since they have attracted greater scholarly attention.20 The deciphering of the meaning and context of the verbs δοκῶ and φαίνομαι will then enable us to interpret the conversation between Cambyses and Cyrus under a new light. I will explore the Socratic connotations of the distinction between seeming and being and show Xenophon’s divergence from Plato. It will become evident from my analysis that Xenophon actually privileges appearing over being, an idea which, as I will show, has important political implications.

Τhe verb δοκῶ Depending on context, the verb δοκῶ may acquire several meanings. It can be translated in at least three ways: a) as “seem, appear” (to somebody, if there is an object in dative), b) as “have the reputation” (followed by a predicate), and c) as “think, have the impression” (usually followed by an infinitive or in

17 Gera 1993, 285–99 interprets the whole attitude of Cyrus after the conquest of Babylon as a distancing from his father’s teaching. Cf. also Too 1998. According to Nadon 2001, 168–70, Cambyses feigns to privilege true prudence over the appearance of prudence, in order to restrain Cyrus’ ambition, but in reality, he believes in appearances. For the role of paternal authority in the Cyropaedia, see Tatum 1989, 75–96, who presents a rather idealized picture of Cyrus’ father. 18 Gray 2011, 100–5. She focuses on the instances of δοκεῖν in the Hellenica, while also considering a few passages from the Cyropaedia. 19 To avoid misunderstandings, I do not consider the two verbs to be synonyms. Yet, as we will see below, they can have similar connotations and are often used in similar contexts. 20 See for instance Harman 2008, for the interconnection between viewing and power in the Cyropaedia.

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the impersonal expression δοκεῖ μοι). In all these cases a visual experience is involved: cases a) and b) emphasize the perspective of external focalizers, while case c) usually describes a mental process (how somebody sees/perceives something intellectually). The Cyropaedia abounds in expressions containing the verb δοκῶ. I present below a brief categorization of these occurrences, which could allow us to better assess the distinctive character of this enigmatic text and to understand Xenophon’s elaboration of the opposition between seeming and being. The leading question of my investigation is whether the occurrences of the verb δοκῶ imply an opposition to truth or reality. My findings can be divided into three categories: a) The first category comprises the usages of the verb δοκῶ which emphasize perceptions. Perceptions in the Cyropaedia mostly concern Cyrus, as one would expect. Time and again, Xenophon informs his readers how Cyrus is perceived by others (his followers, his peers, his rivals), but also how he perceives others (his peers, his soldiers, his followers). The insistence on perceptions can serve different functions: firstly, and most commonly, it motivates action. For example, the Hyrcanian king persuades the Medes to stay in Cyrus’ army by appealing to the way he perceives Cyrus: If you should go away now, Medes, I would say that it must be the plot of a divinity to keep you from becoming especially happy, for who by human judgment would turn back from enemies who are in flight, or not receive their arms as they surrender them, or not accept them as they give up both themselves and their possessions, especially since we have a leader who seems to me – and so I swear to you by all the gods – to be such as to take more pleasure in doing good to us than in enriching himself (ἄλλως τε καὶ τοῦ ἡγεμόνος ἡμῖν ὄντος τοιούτου ὃς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, [ὡς] ὄμνυμι ὑμῖν πάντας τοὺς θεούς, εὖ ποιῶν ἡμᾶς μᾶλλον ἥδεσθαι ἢ ἑαυτὸν πλουτίζων. 21

Similarly, Chrysantas persuades Cyrus to build a palace for himself, by exploiting the perceptions of the peers and their wish not to appear superior to their leader: But now, when you not only have these but also have the power to acquire others whom it is opportune to acquire, it is a worthy thing for you now to obtain a house. What would you enjoy from your rule, if you alone did not receive a hearth as part of your share? No place on earth is more holy, more pleasant, or more one’s own. Besides, do you not think that we would be ashamed if we should see you enduring hardships out of doors, while we ourselves were in houses and seemed to have more than you? (ἔπειτα δ’, ἔφη, οὐκ ἂν

21 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.1.28–29.

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οἴει καὶ ἡμᾶς αἰσχύνεσθαι, εἰ σὲ μὲν ὁρῷμεν ἔξω καρτεροῦντα, αὐτοὶ δ’ ἐν οἰκίαις εἴημεν καὶ σοῦ δοκοίημεν πλεονεκτεῖν;)22

And of course, Cyrus’ concern about how he is perceived by others also determines his actions. Xenophon gives the following motivation for Cyrus’ summoning of his peers: In order that he might not seem to be giving commands to them, but that they might abide in and care for virtue because they themselves realized this to be best (ὅπως δὲ μὴ ἐπιτάττειν αὐτοῖς δοκοίη, ἀλλὰ γνόντες καὶ αὐτοὶ ταῦτα ἄριστα εἶναι οὕτως ἐμμένοιέν τε καὶ ἐπιμελοῖντο τῆς ἀρετῆς), he called together both the peers and all those who were chief aides and seemed to him to be most worthy partners in both hard work and its rewards.23

All these passages underline the importance of perceptions to the leader and also highlight the necessity of an accordance of perceptions in a political context. The Medes agree with the Hyrcanian King, thus confirming his perception of Cyrus as a benefactor; this coincidence of perceptions results in their decision to stay with Cyrus. Cyrus’ relationship with his peers is a more delicate matter. On the one hand, Cyrus seems to agree with Chrysantas on the fact that, by not having a palace, he appears inferior to his peers; consequently, his further actions (i.e. building a palace) are intended to correct this initial perception. On the other hand, the Persian King is also interested in mitigating the perception of authority over his peers, so he strives to foster a sense of equality between himself and his peers. The Cyropaedia also attests to conflicting perceptions of a given situation. The depiction of divergent perceptions provokes the reader to reflect on issues related to leadership. The encounter between Cyrus and his uncle, the Median king Cyaxares, provides an apt occasion for such a reflection. The whole conversation between the two men revolves around perceptions: Cyrus is delighted to recount his successes in front of his uncle; however, the Median King perceives Cyrus’ actions and success as an offense to him. His comment on the situation is revealing: But, Cyrus, I do not know how one could say that the things you have done are bad. Be well assured, however, that they are good in such a way that the more numerous they appear, the more they oppress me […] for your deeds are noble to you who does them, but somehow the same deeds bring dishonor to me […] If I seem to you to lack judgment in the way I take these things to heart, put yourself in my situation, and see how they

22 Xenophon, Cyr. 7.5.56. 23 Xenophon, Cyr. 7.5.71.

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appear to you (εἰ δέ σοι, ἔφη, ταῦτα δοκῶ ἀγνωμόνως ἐνθυμεῖσθαι, μὴ ἐν ἐμοὶ αὐτὰ ἀλλ’ εἰς σὲ τρέψας πάντα καταθέασαι οἷά σοι φαίνεται). 24

In this phrase the vocabulary of vision is employed to describe the intellectual process labeled in modern terms as “empathy”, that is, the ability to place oneself in the position of another and experience what he/she feels.25 Cyaxares invites Cyrus to place himself in his own position and see clearly (καταθέασαι) how he feels. A visual experience is thus presented as an important prerequisite for empathy. It is not certain whether Cyrus eventually empathizes with Cyaxares, but he tries to introduce a different perception of the situation, by showing that he and the Medes revere his uncle.26 Another example of divergent perceptions concerns the motives of Cyrus’ followers. Xenophon states at the beginning of the Cyropaedia that Cyrus gained the willing obedience of his followers.27 In the course of the narrative, however, this statement is significantly expanded and qualified. For example, when Xenophon recounts the motives of Cyrus’ followers, various considerations emerge. The following passage reveals a variety of perceptions concerning Cyrus: Of the Medes, some came out because when they were boys, they had been friends with Cyrus when he was a boy; others because when they had been with him on hunts, they admired his manner; others because they felt grateful to him, since he seemed to have warded off a major threat for them (μέγαν αὐτοῖς φόβον ἀπεληλακέναι ἐδόκει); others also had hopes that, because he appeared to be a good and fortunate man, he would one day be exceedingly great (οἱ δὲ καὶ ἐλπίδας ἔχοντες, διὰ τὸ ἄνδρα φαίνεσθαι ἀγαθὸν καὶ εὐτυχῆ, καὶ μέγαν ἔτι ἰσχυρῶς ἔσεσθαι αὐτόν); others, if he did anything good for anyone when he was growing up among the Medes, wished to gratify him in return …28

It is only Artabazus, the most devoted fan of Cyrus, who cherishes the impression that the followers of Cyrus obey him out of love. Perhaps it is no coincidental that the verb δοκῶ is emphatically used twice in Artabazus’ expression of admiration for Cyrus:

24 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.5.27–28. 25 The psychologist Edward Titchener coined the term “empathy” in 1909 as the translation of the German term “Einfühlung” (or “feeling into”). See Karsten 2014, who presents an overview of the philosophical evolution of the term. Cf. also Frevert 2007, 149–204. 26 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.5.20–5.5.40. For the episode between Cyrus and Cyaxares, see Due 1989, 55–62, Gera 1993, 98–109, Mueller-Goldingen 1995, 182–87, who view Cyaxares as a foil to Cyrus. Tatum 1989, 115–33, and Sandridge 2012b, comment on the envy of Cyaxares. 27 Xenophon, Cyr. 1.1.1. 28 Xenophon, Cyr. 4.2.9–10.

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For you seem to me to have been born a king by nature, no less than is the naturally born leader of the bees in the hives (βασιλεὺς γὰρ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖς σὺ φύσει πεφυκέναι οὐδὲν ἧττον ἢ ὁ ἐν τῷ σμήνει φυόμενος τῶν μελιττῶν ἡγεμών), for the bees obey him voluntarily. If he stays in a place, not one leaves it; and if he goes out somewhere, not one abandons him, so remarkably ardent is their innate love of being ruled by him. And human beings seem to me to be somewhat similarly disposed toward you. (καὶ πρὸς σὲ δέ μοι δοκοῦσι παραπλησίως πως οἱ ἄνθρωποι οὕτω διακεῖσθαι).29

The divergent perceptions regarding Cyrus’ followers raise some intriguing questions: which perception is really valid or the most representative? What are the limits of a leader’s popularity? Xenophon does not answer these questions directly, but lets his readers ponder over them. b) The verb δοκῶ may also point to irony or ambiguity. We can observe this usage in the encounter between Cyrus and the Egyptians in the seventh book of the Cyropaedia. Cyrus tries to convince the Egyptians to surrender, by telling them that if they do so, they will seem/acquire the reputation of brave men (ἄνδρες ἀγαθοὶ δοκοῦντες εἶναι). The Egyptians conceive of the last utterance as ironical and protest: “how could we save our lives and at the same time be accounted brave men?” (Πῶς δ’ ἂν ἡμεῖς σωθείημεν ἄνδρες ἀγαθοὶ δοκοῦντες εἶναι;) Cyrus’ answer illustrates the Realpolitik dimension of the situation: “You could surrender your arms and become friends of those who choose to save you, when it is in their power to destroy you”.30 This conversation illustrates that when there is discordance between unequal forces, the mighty have the power to introduce (and impose) even twisted perceptions of reality: according to that novel perception, the Egyptians will be considered brave, if they surrender (and not, as is conventionally believed, if they fight to the death). In these cases, given that the mighty will inevitably prevail, the justice or falsehood of perceptions does not really matter.31 It is noteworthy that, in all the instances described above, the issue is not raised whether a perception corresponds to reality or not. Xenophon may wish to underline precisely this fact: that when leadership issues are at stake, perceptions play a more vital role than reality.

29 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.1.24–25. 30 Xenophon, Cyr. 7.1.41–42. 31 This passage echoes Thucydides’ Melian Dialogue (Thucydides, 5.91–93): like Cyrus, the Athenians state that the safety of the Melians can be secured, because they, the mighty power, choose to save them, by enslaving them. Passages like this nuance Lendon’s view, according to which Xenophon was interested in promoting an alternative political theory, based more on reciprocity than on power (Lendon 2006). It seems that Xenophon was also well aware of the principles of Realpolitik, which he inserted in the Cyropaedia.

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c) The third important usage of the verb δοκῶ is its relation to fraud and deception. Δοκῶ hints at deception in two contexts in the Cyropaedia: in warfare and in the imperialistic state that Cyrus establishes after the conquest of Babylon. Cyrus states time and again that deception is indispensable in war. He goes on to provide a rationale for it: “In time of war one could not in any way do more good one’s friends than by seeming to be their enemy, nor more harm to enemies than by seeming to be their friend” (οὔτε γὰρ ἂν φίλους τις ποιήσειεν ἄλλως πως πλείω ἀγαθὰ ἐν πολέμῳ ἢ πολέμιος δοκῶν εἶναι οὔτ’ ἂν ἐχθροὺς πλείω τις βλάψειεν ἄλλως πως ἢ φίλος δοκῶν εἶναι).32 Similar ideas are attested in other Xenophontic works as well. In the Hipparchicus Xenophon advises along the same lines: “The good cavalry commander must also have sufficient ingenuity to make a small company of horse look large, and conversely, to make a large one look small; to seem to be absent when present, and present when absent; to know how to deceive, not merely how to steal the enemy’s possessions, but also how to conceal his own force and fall on the enemy unexpectedly”.33 These passages do not convey a negative evaluation of deception. On the contrary, the image of Cyrus applying methods of deception is a more debated issue. After the conquest of Babylon Cyrus undertakes a series of measures in order to appear more solemn and bewitch his followers: We think we learned of Cyrus that he did not believe that rulers must differ from their subjects by this alone, by being better, but he also thought they must bewitch them. At least he himself both chose to wear a Median robe and persuaded his partners to dress in one as well, for this robe seemed to him to hide it if somebody should have some bodily defect (αὕτη γὰρ αὐτῷ συγκρύπτειν ἐδόκει εἴ τίς τι ἐν τῷ σώματι ἐνδεὲς ἔχοι, καὶ καλλίστους καὶ μεγίστους ἐπιδεικνύναι τοὺς φοροῦντας), and they displayed their wearers as especially beautiful and tall, for they have shoes in which it is especially possible to avoid detection when inserting something underneath, so those who wear them seem to be taller than they are (ὥστε δοκεῖν μείζους εἶναι ἢ εἰσί). And he allowed them to use color beneath their eyes, so that their eyes might appear nicer than they were, and to rub on colors so that they might be seen as having better complexions than they did by nature (καὶ ὑποχρίεσθαι δὲ τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς προσίετο, ὡς εὐοφθαλμότεροι φαίνοιντο ἢ εἰσί, καὶ ἐντρίβεσθαι, ὡς εὐχροώτεροι ὁρῷντο ἢ πεφύκασιν). 34

Cyrus’ attitude here turns out to be totally un-Socratic: in the conversation between Socrates and Aristippus in the second book of the Memorabilia, Socrates narrates the fable of Prodicus about the choice of Heracles. We learn

32 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.3.9. 33 Xenophon, Eq. Mag. 5.2. Dibiasie 2013 shows that the abundant use of seeming expressions in contexts related to cavalry emphasizes the performative aspect of leadership. 34 Xenophon, Cyr. 8.1.40–42.

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from this fable that it is Kakia who employs methods of deception in order to appear more pleasant and attractive: The other (sc. Kakia) had grown stout and soft with high feeding. Her skin was made up to heighten its natural white and pink, her figure to exaggerate her height (ὥστε λευκοτέραν τε καὶ ἐρυθροτέραν τοῦ ὄντος δοκεῖν φαίνεσθαι, τὸ δὲ σχῆμα ὥστε δοκεῖν ὀρθοτέραν τῆς φύσεως εἶναι). She had wide-open eyes and clothing that show-cased her beauty (τὰ δὲ ὄμματα ἔχειν ἀναπεπταμένα, ἐσθῆτα δὲ ἐξ ἧς ἂν μάλιστα ὥρα διαλάμποι). She kept eyeing herself and looking to see whether anyone noticed her; and often stole a glance at her own shadow (κατασκοπεῖσθαι δὲ θαμὰ ἑαυτήν, ἐπισκοπεῖν δὲ καὶ εἴ τις ἄλλος αὐτὴν θεᾶται, πολλάκις δὲ καὶ εἰς τὴν ἑαυτῆς σκιὰν ἀποβλέπειν).35

Similarly, Ischomachus, the ideal household manager, discourages his wife from embellishing herself (Xen. Oec. 10.10); he considers this kind of ornament a deception. The similarities between Cyrus and Kakia cannot pass unnoticed: they both invent techniques to improve their appearance and they both seem to approve of deception (besides the common themes, some verbal echoes are worth noticing: δοκεῖν and φαίνεσθαι are repeatedly used in both passages). They both place great weight on how they are perceived by others. The only difference between them is that Cyrus is already conspicuous as a leader, so he does not need to have recourse to self-gaze, as does Kakia. Does this description imply a critical stance of Xenophon towards the Persian king? Would Xenophon wish to equate Cyrus with Kakia? Scholars have observed the discrepancy between the young Cyrus who seemed to cherish the ideals of frugality and modesty, and the imperialist Cyrus who has recourse to complex methods in order to bewitch his followers and impress his solemnity upon them.36 According to this angle of interpretation, in the final stage of Cyrus’ career, Cyrus would seem to distance himself from the teaching of his father. V. Azoulay offers a resolution of this contradiction, by rightly commenting on Cyrus’ double agenda (Median and Persian): Cyrus can have recourse to (Median) techniques of bewitching the mass of his followers, while, at the same time, practicing (Persian) virtue himself. The focus of this study on the opposition between seeming and being can offer an additional way of resolution. If we examine more closely Cambyses’ teaching about seeming and being, we observe that it concerns a very specific issue, namely the superior prudence (φρόνησις) of the leader. His advice was

35 Xenophon, Mem. 2.1.22. Dorion 2011, 155–57, adduces evidence which shows that Cyrus cannot be compared to Ischomachus. 36 For Cyrus’ transformation into an imperialist, see Carlier 1978, Breebart 1983, Gera 1993, 285–99, Too 1998, Nadon 2001, 109–46.

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that Cyrus should both be and appear prudent (φρόνιμος). There was no indication that Cyrus would be deprived of this attribute if he contrived (additional) methods to impose his authority. I will return to this point later. For the moment, suffice it to notice that we find no explicit condemnation of Cyrus’ deception (either in war or with regard to his followers) in the Cyropaedia. Consequently, it would be more accurate to contend that these passages attest, like the passages analyzed above, to a limited interest in reality. d) Finally, expression εἰμὶ καὶ δοκῶ deserves some special attention. As far as my investigation can tell, joint reference to εἰμὶ and δοκῶ is rare in classical literature.37 In the Cyropaedia this expression occurs twice and is self-referential in both cases. Cyrus describes his qualities, namely his excellence and justice, by stressing not only their existence, but also their visual representation, that is the perspective of others concerning them. In the first instance, Cyrus speaks to his mother as follows: At home, mother, among those of my age, I both am and am thought to be the best (οἴκοι μὲν τῶν ἡλίκων καὶ εἰμὶ καὶ δοκῶ κράτιστος εἶναι) at throwing spears and shooting the bow …38

In the second instance, Cyrus tries to persuade his potential ally, Gobryas, of his reliability as a friend: Be assured that as long as I am just and am praised by human beings because I seem to be so (ἕως ἂν ἀνὴρ δίκαιος ὦ καὶ δοκῶν εἶναι τοιοῦτος ἐπαινῶμαι ὑπ’ ἀνθρώπων), I shall never forget this but will try to honor you in return with all things noble.39

In both passages Cyrus underlines the fact that external perceptions can serve as a confirmation that he really possesses important qualities (military or moral). These occurrences allow for two observations. Firstly, the combination of εἰμὶ with δοκῶ weakens Gray’s thesis, according to which the two verbs are used as synonyms in Xenophon. The joint reference to both verbs suggests, on the contrary, that they have a distinct meaning and that Xenophon intends to

37 See Demosthenes, Lept. 82: οὕτω γὰρ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἔμοιγε φαίνεται βεβαίως πως ἐκεῖνος φιλόπολις, ὥστε δοκῶν καὶ ὢν ἀσφαλέστατος στρατηγὸς ἁπάντων, ὑπὲρ μὲν ὑμῶν, ὁπόθ’ ἡγοῖτο, ἐχρῆτο τούτῳ (“for to me he seems such a fervent patriot that, though he both had the reputation and indeed was the most cautious of all generals, it was for your sake that he displayed this quality whenever he led you”). However, the expression becomes more common later: see Dio Chrysostomus 32.86, Plutarch, Philopoemen 15.7. 38 Xenophon, Cyr. 1.3.15. 39 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.2.11.

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emphasize this. Secondly, one might reasonably wonder why Xenophon did not limit himself to the “being” expression. It seems that Xenophon’s presentation derives from his awareness of the problems posed by the opposition between seeming and being.40 Xenophon participates in the contemporary debate and presents his contribution, which lies not in privileging being over seeming, but in valorizing both. To sum up, if we wished to find a common thread unifying the various usages of the term δοκῶ in the Cyropaedia, it would be that they all point to a limited interest in reality: perceptions are predominant for the leader and his followers, deception is justified and being does not really count, if it is not accompanied by appearing (that is, by good reputation, fame, etc.). We can now inquire whether the examination of the terms related to φαίνομαι leads to similar results.

Τhe verb φαίνομαι The verb φαίνομαι and the relevant terms or expressions (such as φανερός, ἐμφανίζω, ἐν τῷ φανερῷ, etc.) describe a more tangible perception of reality than the terms of the δοκ- root presented above. Terms of the φαν-family convey an implication of lack of concealment, which links (at least on a first level) φανερός with truth, in its primary etymological sense (ἀλήθεια as something which does not escape notice). What appears (φαίνεται) is thus something that we choose to bring to light, to make visible, instead of keeping it hidden or out of sight. It may be an external characteristic, such as beauty, which in any case is hardly unnoticeable, or an internal quality that is exteriorized and takes a visible form.41 These perspectives are important for the Cyropaedia. References to the terms of the φαν-family are ample and are employed in the following contexts: a) As is only to be expected, φαν- terms are related to beauty. The model of beauty in the Cyropaedia is admittedly the captive Panthea, who is described as “the most beautiful woman in Asia” (Xen. Cyr. 4.6.11, 5.1.7). Xenophon employs abundantly visual vocabulary to describe her beauty. In a vivid narrative,

40 That Xenophon was aware of the opposition between seeming and being can be further proved by the distinction between τῷ ὄντι and δοκεῖν, which he often establishes in his works (Oec. 10.9, Smp. 4.11, 8.43, Cyr. 1.6.23). 41 See now an overview by Macé 2014.

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Araspas tells Cyrus that it was when she rent her outer garment from top to bottom and started weeping that her beauty was revealed: “At this point most of her face became visible, her neck and hands also became visible” (ἐν τούτῳ δὲ ἐφάνη μὲν αὐτῆς τὸ πλεῖστον μέρος τοῦ προσώπου, ἐφάνη δὲ ἡ δέρη καὶ αἱ χεῖρες).42 The repetition of the verb ἐφάνη expresses the gradual revelation of Panthea’s extraordinary beauty. Panthea’s beauty gives also rise to a theoretical reflection on the dangers of the gaze. Cyrus refuses to follow Araspas’ advice to gaze at Panthea on the following grounds: Because, if hearing from you that she is beautiful persuades me to go to see her now (πεισθήσομαι ἐλθεῖν θεασόμενος), even though I do not have much leisure, I fear that she in turn will much more quickly persuade me to come to see her again (καὶ πάλιν ἐλθεῖν θεασόμενον). Consequently, I would perhaps sit gazing at her, neglecting what I need to do (ἐκ δὲ τούτου ἴσως ἂν ἀμελήσας ὧν με δεῖ πράττειν καθῄμην ἐκείνην θεώμενος).43

Beauty and gazing at beauty, according to Cyrus, are incompatible with the exercise of politics. However, the Cyropaedia also attests to an ambivalence with regard to external beauty: on the one hand, Cyrus’ refusal to gaze at Panthea results from an acknowledgement of the power of beauty. On the other hand, it is noteworthy that people who admire Cyrus fail to notice his external beauty. When Tigranes, the Armenian captive, asks his wife whether she admires Cyrus for his beauty, the following conversation takes place: “But, by Zeus, I did not even look at him (Ἀλλὰ μὰ Δί’, ἔφη, οὐκ ἐκεῖνον ἐθεώμην)”. “At whom, then?”, asked Tigranes. “At the one who said, by Zeus, that he would pay with his own life so that I not be a slave.” 44

Similarly, Gadatas confesses that he wishes to gaze upon Cyrus again, because he is attracted by the merits of his soul: “But I, by the gods, was coming in order to contemplate you again, how you appear in sight, you who have such a soul (Ἐγὼ δέ γ’, ἔφη ὁ Γαδάτας, ναὶ μὰ τοὺς θεοὺς σὲ ἐπαναθεασόμενος ᾖα ὁποῖός τίς ποτε φαίνῃ ἰδεῖν ὁ τοιαύτην ψυχὴν ἔχων)”.45

The verb θεῶμαι, which was previously employed to describe gazing at the beautiful Panthea, is now linked with the contemplation of the beauty of the soul. I would like to suggest that Xenophon establishes a contrast in the Cyro-

42 43 44 45

Xenophon, Cyr. 5.1.7. Xenophon, Cyr. 5.1.8. Xenophon, Cyr. 3.1.41. Xenophon, Cyr. 5.4.11.

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paedia: between the beautiful Panthea and the handsome Cyrus. This contrast gives him the occasion to juxtapose external beauty with the beauty of the soul. Cyrus is admittedly handsome, but the merits of his soul make this external beauty rather invisible. The emphasis on the beauty of the soul obviously has Socratic connotations, but Cyrus in this point proves to be superior to Socrates, since he possesses both external and internal beauty. b) The second important usage of φαίνομαι concerns leadership. The verb φαίνομαι and the relevant expressions emphasize visibility as an important element of exemplary leadership. Xenophon describes Cyrus’ view of leadership as follows: “he believed that he could in no way more effectively inspire a desire for the beautiful and the good than by endeavoring, as their sovereign, to set before his subjects a perfect model of virtue in his own person (εἰ αὐτὸς ἑαυτὸν ἐπιδεικνύειν πειρῷτο τοῖς ἀρχομένοις πάντων μάλιστα κεκοσμημένον τῇ ἀρετῇ)”.46 And he goes on to describe how Cyrus publicly displayed his piety, temperance, shame, and self-control.47 Again the issue of appearance is of outmost importance. It is interesting that appearance plays a part not only for Cyrus, but also for those who will follow his example. Xenophon explains the dynamics of Cyrus’ paradigm as follows: “And by making his own selfcontrol an example, he disposed all to practice that virtue more diligently. For when the weaker members of the society see that one who is in a position where he may indulge himself to excess is still under self-control, they naturally strive all the more not to do something insolent in the open (ὅταν γὰρ ὁρῶσιν, ᾧ μάλιστα ἔξεστιν ὑβρίζειν, τοῦτον σωφρονοῦντα, οὕτω μᾶλλον οἵ γε ἀσθενέστεροι ἐθέλουσιν οὐδὲν ὑβριστικὸν ποιοῦντες φανεροὶ εἶναι)”.48 The issue of whether somebody is really temperate or possesses self-control is completely set aside. The leader should show himself to be virtuous and so should his followers. Visibility is also conducive to effective leadership. In the programmatic conversation between Cambyses and Cyrus, Cambyses’ advice is centered on the public display of goodwill: But as for being loved by one’s subjects, which seems at least to me to be among the most important matters, it is clear that the road to it is the same as that one should take if he desires to be loved by his friends, for I think one must evidently benefit them (εὖ γὰρ οἶμαι δεῖν ποιοῦντα φανερὸν εἶναι). But, son, it is difficult to be able at all times to do good for those for whom one would like to. But to evidently rejoice along with them, if some good

46 Xenophon, Cyr. 8.1.21. 47 Xenophon, Cyr. 8.1.23, 8.1.27, 8.1.30, 8.1.32. 48 Xenophon, Cyr. 8.1.30.

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should befall then, to grieve along with them if some evil, to be enthusiastic to join in helping them with difficulties, to fear lest they should fail in something, to try to use forethought that they not fail (τὸ δὲ συνηδόμενόν τε φαίνεσθαι, ἤν τι ἀγαθὸν αὐτοῖς συμβαίνῃ, καὶ συναχθόμενον, ἤν τι κακόν, καὶ συνεπικουρεῖν προθυμούμενον ταῖς ἀπορίαις αὐτῶν, καὶ φοβούμενον μή τι σφαλῶσι, καὶ προνοεῖν πειρώμενον ὡς μὴ σφάλλωνται) – in these matters one must somehow keep them company very closely.49

We can observe Cyrus following his father’s advice. Xenophon describes his attitude towards his allies, the Cadusians, who had survived an Assyrian attack, as follows: “Cyrus was obviously distressed, since when it was time and the others were having dinner, he – still with the doctors and their servants – was not willing to leave anyone without care: he either watched over them with his own eyes or, if he could not manage this, was conspicuous in sending others who would care for them (ἀλλ’ ἢ αὐτόπτης ἐφεώρα ἢ εἰ μὴ αὐτὸς ἐξανύτοι, πέμπων φανερὸς ἦν τοὺς θεραπεύσοντας)”.50 Cyrus is not only interested in helping his allies, but also in rendering this help conspicuous. He advises the taxiarchs to do the same with their men: “Men, friends, we know that it is possible for us to have lunch now, sooner than our allies who are absent, and to put to good use this food and drink that has been so earnestly prepared. But it does not seem to me that this lunch would benefit us more than to be visibly concerned for our allies (ἀλλ’ οὔ μοι δοκεῖ τοῦτ’ ἂν τὸ ἄριστον πλέον ὠφελῆσαι ἡμᾶς ἢ τὸ τῶν συμμάχων ἐπιμελεῖς φανῆναι)”.51 More radically, later Cyrus seems to expand on Cambyses’ advice. His whole attitude relies on his exposing himself to people’s sight as well as on his watching everybody else around him: he introduces methods to inspect everybody and conceives of himself as a seeing law (βλέπων νόμος).52 It is only when he establishes his empire that the Persian King becomes invisible to the mass of his followers.53 Chrysantas praises Cyrus’ former conduct of acting in public: “But before, Cyrus, you properly presented yourself out in the open …” (Ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν πρόσθεν, ὦ Κῦρε, εἰκότως ἐν τῷ φανερῷ σαυτὸν παρεῖχες).54 Finally, Xenophon presents a theoretical elaboration on the visibility of virtue. He comments on Cyrus’ display of love of humanity (φιλανθρωπία) as follows: “In the first place, then, he showed at all times as great kindness of heart as he could (πρῶτον μὲν γὰρ διὰ παντὸς ἀεὶ τοῦ χρόνου φιλανθρωπίαν τῆς ψυχῆς ὡς ἐδύνατο μάλιστα

49 50 51 52 53 54

Xenophon, Cyr. 1.6.24. Xenophon, Cyr. 5.4.18. Xenophon, Cyr. 4.2.38. Xenophon, Cyr. 8.1.22. Xenophon, Cyr. 7.5.39–40. Xenophon, Cyr. 7.5.55.

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ἐνεφάνιζεν); for he believed that just as it is not easy to love those who seem to hate us, or to cherish good-will toward those who bear us ill-will, in the same way those who are known to love and to cherish good-will could not be hated by those who believe themselves loved”.55 It becomes thus evident that Cyrus’ display of kindness is part of a carefully calculated ideological plan: the display of this virtue secures the love of his followers.56 All these occurrences show the importance of visibility for the leader, which mainly concerns the friends and at times also the followers of the leader. Concerning enemies, however, invisibility is required. The Cyropaedia abounds in military advice, which stresses the hidden and secret. Cambyses advises the young Cyrus as follows: “Contrive, then, as far as is in your power, to catch your enemies in disorder with your own troops in order; unarmed, with yours armed; sleeping, with yours wide awake; visible to you, while you are yourself invisible to them (καὶ φανερούς σοι ὄντας ἀφανὴς αὐτὸς ὢν ἐκείνοις)”.57 c) The emphasis Cyrus and Cambyses place on visibility may be also linked with Persian culture. The verb φαίνομαι frequently occurs in descriptions of Persian customs. For instance, Xenophon notes that “it is a breach of decorum for a Persian to spit or to blow his nose or to appear afflicted with flatulence” (αἰσχρὸν μὲν γὰρ ἔτι καὶ νῦν ἐστι Πέρσαις καὶ τὸ πτύειν καὶ τὸ ἀπομύττεσθαι καὶ τὸ φύσης μεστοὺς φαίνεσθαι).58 Again he describes the temperance of the Persian nobles with regard to food in the following way: “No Persian of the educated class became visibly distracted by any kind of food or drink, either with his eyes gloating over it (οὔτ’ ἂν ὄμμασιν ἐκπεπληγμένος καταφανὴς γένοιτο), or with his hands greedy to get it, or with his thoughts so engrossed by it as to fail to observe things that would attract his attention if he were not at meat […] educated Persians think that at their meals they ought to show themselves prudent and temperate (οὕτω κἀκεῖνοι ἐν τῷ σίτῳ οἴονται δεῖν φρόνιμοι καὶ μέτριοι φαίνεσθαι)”.59 These descriptions explicate the norms, which can justify the hidden and invisible: Persians are not simply encouraged to be temperate as such, but to display temperance. In this sense, they may be greedy, but the crucial thing is not to show it publicly. In fact, the issue of whether they really feel greedy is secondary. What matters is what they show.

55 Xenophon, Cyr. 8.2.1. 56 For the problems and limitations of Cyrus’ φιλανθρωπία, see Sandridge 2012a, 79–96. 57 Xenophon, Cyr. 1.6.35–36. 58 Xenophon, Cyr. 1.2.16. Cf. Herodotus, 1.99. Deioces is described introducing the prohibition of spitting. As Reza Zarghamee points out to me, these prohibitions mainly concerned the nobility. 59 Xenophon, Cyr. 5.2.17.

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d) Finally, the verb φαίνομαι has similar connotations with δοκῶ in two contexts: firstly, to describe deception. Cyaxares protests about young Cyrus’ modest appearance: he wants him to appear more solemn (ἐγὼ δ’, ἔφη, ἐβουλόμην σε ὡς λαμπρότατον φανῆναι· καὶ γὰρ ἐμοὶ ἂν κόσμος ἦν τοῦτο, ἐμῆς ὄντα ἀδελφῆς υἱὸν ὅτι μεγαλοπρεπέστατον φαίνεσθαι).60 Indeed, during his youth, Cyrus refrains from following the Median custom of excessive adornment; however, after he establishes his empire, as we saw above, he has recourse himself to several devices in order to appear more solemn. Secondly, like the verb δοκῶ, the verb φαίνομαι can also express ambiguity in a political context. The Armenian king who tries to secede from Cyrus but is eventually captured by him, describes his situation as follows: “when I was striving to secure liberty, I became more a slave than ever before; and when we were taken prisoners, we then thought our destruction certain, but we now come to light as having been saved as never before (ἐπεὶ δ’ ἑάλωμεν, σαφῶς ἀπολωλέναι νομίσαντες νῦν ἀναφαινόμεθα σεσωσμένοι ὡς οὐδεπώποτε)”.61 This description is placed immediately after Cyrus has issued a threat against the Armenians and the Chaldaeans, thus forcing them to accept the peace he proposes. The expression ἀναφαινόμεθα σεσωσμένοι is not thus deprived of some ambiguity, since the appearance of salvation results from fear and the law of the mighty. Moreover, the connection of defeat (ἑάλωμεν) with salvation is a paradox for Greek political thought, which conventionally valorizes fighting to death for freedom.62 In sum, our investigation shows that the verb φαίνομαι has richer connotations and covers a broader range of meanings than the verb δοκῶ: on the one hand, it expresses something open and visible (be it external beauty or an internal quality), to which everybody has visual access. On the other hand, it may also convey an implication of deception and ambiguity. In this case, we can observe a parallelism between the occurrences of δοκῶ and φαίνομαι: both verbs tend to justify deception and may also be linked with ambivalent situations in a political context. Now, the question that arises is whether the verb φαίνομαι in the Cyropaedia has greater claims to “truth” or “reality” than the verb δοκῶ. Xenophon does not provide a definite answer to this problem: he does not openly suggest that the display of virtue amounts to mere appearance and that it could thus be equated with the absence of virtue;63 nor does he imply, conversely, that the display of virtue corresponds to true virtue. So, it

60 Xenophon, Cyr. 2.4.5: “I wished that you appeared as brilliant as possible; for it would be an adornment to me as well that you appear most solemn, since you are the son of my sister”. 61 Xenophon, Cyr. 3.2.15. 62 See further Tamiolaki 2010, 283–320, for the Cyropaedia as a legitimization of willing submission and Tamiolaki 2016, 47–49, for the appeal to fear in the Cyropaedia. 63 Pace Nadon 2001, 168–69.

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would be safer to conclude that he valorizes appearances, leaving the question of whether appearances correspond to reality open. From this perspective, the examination of the occurrences of φαίνομαι complements the examination of the occurrences of δοκῶ: both inquiries demonstrate that perceptions and appearances occupy a central position in the reflection on leadership of the Cyropaedia.

Τhe conversation between Cambyses and Cyrus: a Reconsideration We can now return to the conversation between Cambyses and Cyrus mentioned at the beginning of our analysis. I am citing here a greater section from this conversation, which can help us better understand Xenophon’s stand towards the problem of seeming and being: “You mean to say, father, that nothing is more effective toward keeping one men’s obedient than to seem to be more prudent than them? (Λέγεις σύ, ὦ πάτερ, εἰς τὸ πειθομένους ἔχειν οὐδὲν εἶναι ἀνυσιμώτερον τοῦ φρονιμώτερον δοκεῖν εἶναι τῶν ἀρχομένων.)” “Yes,” said he, “that is just what I mean”. “And how, pray, father, could one most quickly acquire such a reputation for oneself? (Καὶ πῶς δή τις ἄν, ὦ πάτερ, τοιαύτην δόξαν τάχιστα περὶ αὑτοῦ παρασχέσθαι δύναιτο;).” “There is no shorter road, my son”, said he, “than really to be prudent in those things in which you wish to seem to be prudent (Οὐκ ἔστιν ἔφη, ὦ παῖ, συντομωτέρα ὁδὸς 〈ἐπὶ τό,〉 περὶ ὧν βούλει, δοκεῖν φρόνιμος εἶναι ἢ τὸ γενέσθαι περὶ τούτων φρόνιμον). By examining each case individually you will realize that what I say is true, for if you wish, without being a good farmer, to seem to be a good one (ἢν γὰρ βούλῃ μὴ ὢν ἀγαθὸς γεωργὸς δοκεῖν εἶναι ἀγαθός) – or horseman, doctor, flute player, or anything else whatsoever – consider how many things you must contrive for the sake of seeming so (ἐννόει πόσα σε δέοι ἂν μηχανᾶσθαι τοῦ δοκεῖν ἕνεκα). Even if you should persuade many to praise you, so as to gain a reputation (ὅπως δόξαν λάβοις), and should acquire beautiful accoutrements for each of these [arts], you would deceive but for the moment; a little later, when put to the test, you would be openly refuted and exposed as a boaster as well”.64

It is time, I think, to free ourselves from a long-standing misinterpretation concerning this conversation, according to which Cambyses privileges being over seeming. What happens in reality is that Cambyses subordinates being to seeming. Cyrus’ question and subsequently Cambyses’ answers revolve around the theme of “how the leader should appear to be more prudent than his fol-

64 Xenophon, Cyr. 1.6.21–22.

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lowers” (notice the repetition of the words δοκεῖν and δόξα in this context). Cambyses envisages two possibilities: the leader should either be wise or contrive methods to appear so. He opts for the former, not for a metaphysical reason, in the sense that being prudent is a good thing, but because he considers it to be the easiest and safest solution (συντομωτέρα ὁδός). Cambyses’ suggestion thus stems from an implicit recognition of the difficulties of deception rather than from outward rejection of it. Our previous inquiry can confirm this observation. Given the predominance of perceptions and appearances in the Cyropaedia analyzed above, it comes as no surprise that Cambyses’ emphasis is on how Cyrus will appear to his followers.65 From this perspective, Cyrus’ decision in the last stages of his empire to contrive methods to appear more solemn is not incompatible with his father’s advice, but rather represents a radical application of it. Cyrus pushes his father’s teaching to its extreme. We can now examine the Socratic connotations of this idea. In the Memorabilia Xenophon presents Socrates giving his disciples exactly the same advice as Cambyses. If they wish to acquire the reputation of being wise, temperate, etc., they should be so: He (sc. Socrates) always said that the best road to good repute is the one where a man can become good in the way he wishes to be thought good (ὡς οὐκ εἴη καλλίων ὁδὸς ἐπ’ εὐδοξίαν ἢ δι’ ἧς ἄν τις ἀγαθὸς τοῦτο γένοιτο, 〈ὃ〉 καὶ δοκεῖν βούλοιτο) […] Suppose a bad pipe player wants to be thought a good one, let us note what he must do […] So too if a man who is not a general or pilot wanted to be thought a good one, let us imagine what would happen to him (ὣς δ’ αὔτως εἴ τις βούλοιτο στρατηγὸς ἀγαθὸς μὴ ὢν φαίνεσθαι ἢ κυβερνήτης, ἐννοῶμεν τί ἂν αὐτῷ συμβαίνοι). If his efforts to seem proficient in these duties failed to carry conviction, would not his failure be galling to him? If they succeeded, would not his success be still more disastrous?66 If you want to be thought good at anything you must try to be so, Critobulus; that is the quickest, the surest, the best way (ἀλλὰ συντομωτάτη τε καὶ ἀσφαλεστάτη καὶ καλλίστη ὁδός, ὦ Κριτόβουλε, ὅ τι ἂν βούλῃ δοκεῖν ἀγαθὸς εἶναι, τοῦτο καὶ γενέσθαι ἀγαθὸν πειρᾶσθαι).67

Again, being is presented as a means to an end, which is the good reputation. More intriguingly, both in the advice of Cambyses and in the teaching of Socrates we observe a shift from a moral concern (virtue: ἀγαθός, φρόνιμος) to a practical issue (competence in war, leadership, etc.). Cambyses’ advice and

65 Cf. also Buxton 2017, 327, for the importance of stressing appearances: “Unadvertised virtue does not harm one’s followers, but it also does not inspire them to become willing partners”. Translation Marchant, Todd, and Henderson 2013. 66 Xenophon, Mem. 1.7.2–3. See Dorion 2000, 169–70, for the term ἀλαζονεία in Xenophon. 67 Xenophon, Mem. 2.6.39.

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Socrates’ teaching initially introduce virtue to the discussion, but end up elaborating on the issue of whether somebody will be able to acquire the reputation of being good (i.e. competent) in a specific field even if he is not. By the end of the conversation, it becomes clear that virtue served only as a pretext to discuss more practical matters.68 If these ideas are examined against the intellectual background of Xenophon’s time, Xenophon’s contribution to his contemporary debates becomes more evident. In fact, Xenophon’s treatment of seeming and being could be read as a response to Plato’s Republic. A central concern in the second book of the Republic is that somebody may manage to acquire the reputation of justice, while being unjust, or conversely acquire the reputation of being unjust, while being just. Visibility plays a cardinal role in this reflection, since it conditions justice and injustice.69 Glaucon recounts the famous story of the ring of Gyges, which could render people invisible, and concedes that people would always act unjustly, if they were invisible and hence never caught for their injustice. He concludes by privileging appearance; it suffices to have the reputation of being just, while being unjust, in order to acquire fame and money: “For if I am a just man, then they say that these sayings are of no consequence unless I also give the outward appearance of being just (τὰ μὲν γὰρ λεγόμενα δικαίῳ μὲν ὄντι μοι, ἐὰν μὴ καὶ δοκῶ ὄφελος οὐδέν φασιν εἶναι), but the sufferings and penalties are manifest. But for the unjust person who has cultivated a reputation for justice a life fit for the gods is predicted (ἀδίκῳ δὲ δόξαν δικαιοσύνης παρεσκευασμένῳ θεσπέσιος βίος λέγεται).”70 The Platonic Socrates undertakes to attack this line of argumentation, with the aim of showing the superiority of being over seeming.71 Xenophon differentiates himself from Plato in at least two ways: firstly, contrary to Plato, he is interested in and valorizes appearances: in Xenophon, as we saw above, seeming is presented either as equivalent or as hierarchically superior to being. It is also relevant that deception is not really condemned in the Cyropaedia: it is crucial in warfare, but Xenophon seems to transpose its importance into the political realm as well. Cyrus can deceive his followers by

68 For the ambiguity of virtue in Xenophon, see Tamiolaki 2012. 69 Reeve 2010, Herman 2013. 70 Plato, Resp. 365b4–8. Translation from Preddy 2013. 71 Contrary to Xenophon, Plato openly privileges being over seeming. Plato, Grg. 537b5: καὶ παντὸς μᾶλλον ἀνδρὶ μελετητέον οὐ τὸ δοκεῖν εἶναι ἀγαθὸν ἀλλὰ τὸ εἶναι, καὶ ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ. Cf also Plato, Resp. 361b5–7: τοῦτον δὲ τοιοῦτον θέντες τὸν δίκαιον αὖ παρ’ αὐτὸν ἱστῶμεν τῷ λόγῳ, ἄνδρα ἁπλοῦν καὶ γενναῖον, κατ’ Αἰσχύλον οὐ δοκεῖν ἀλλ’ εἶναι ἀγαθὸν ἐθέλοντα. ἀφαιρετέον δὴ τὸ δοκεῖν.

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accentuating his majesty or by imposing on them twisted perceptions of reality. Secondly, and more importantly, by blurring the boundaries between a moral issue (virtue) and a practical one (competence in war), Xenophon essentially sidesteps the problem of a possible discrepancy between appearance and reality. Having given the conversation a practical orientation, he then takes it for granted that if somebody possesses certain qualities, for example in leadership and war, he will inevitably acquire a good reputation in these fields. In this way, he resolves the contradiction between seeming and being, by ultimately postulating the need for their interdependence in a political context. It would be tempting to read Xenophon’s ideas as a refinement of Glaucon’s thesis: in fact the Glaucian unjust person shares some qualities with Xenophon’s Cyrus (fame, money, good reputation). The paradigm of Cyrus thus serves as a corrective to the Platonic image: it shows that money and reputation are not wholly incompatible with the striving for virtue (even if virtue eventually seems rather secondary to competence in war). *** In conclusion, this study has focused on the occurrences of the verbs δοκῶ and φαίνομαι in the Cyropaedia, with the aim of showing how Xenophon responds to the philosophical problem of appearance and reality (or seeming and being). Our analysis has shown that, despite their different meanings, the two verbs emphasize perceptions and appearances and can be also used as synonyms in specific contexts. Against the (Platonic) tendency of privileging being over seeming, Xenophon responds either by equally valorizing seeming, or, even more radically, by insisting on appearances. It becomes obvious that Xenophon’s political preoccupations and his interest in leadership dictated his elaboration of the theme of seeming and being. A man of action himself, Xenophon was aware that it was very difficult for a leader to overcome the negative implications of appearances. It is thus no wonder that in the Cyropaedia, the most detailed elaboration on issues of leadership, he chose to suppress the negative connotations of δοκεῖν and φαίνεσθαι, by investing appearances with positive overtones and by proposing the (somewhat problematic) identification of seeming with being. Perhaps modern politicians would have a lot to learn from Xenophon’s efforts to save appearances.

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Abbreviations LSJ9

A Greek-English Lexicon, compiled by H. G. Liddell and R. Scott, revised and augmented throughout by Sir H. Stuart Jones, with the assistance of R. Mackenzie and with the cooperation of many scholars, with a revised supplement, Oxford 19969.

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Macé, A. (2014), “D’Homère à Platon. La réalité du phénomène”, in: J. Perreau (ed.), Le phénomène, Paris, 11–34. Marchant, E. C., Todd, O. J. and Henderson, J. (2013), Xenophon. Memorabilia, Oeconomicus, Symposium, Apology, Cambridge Mass. McCoy, M. (2008), Plato on the Rhetoric of Philosophers and Sophists, Cambridge. Miller, W. (1994), Xenophon. Cyropaedia, 2 vols., Cambridge, Mass. (first edition 1914). Moravcskik, J. (1992), Plato and Platonism. Plato’s Conception of Appearance and Reality in Ontology, Epistemology, and Ethics, and its Modern Echoes, Oxford/Cambridge Mass. Mueller-Goldingen, Ch. (1995), Untersuchungen zur Xenophons Kyrupädie, Stuttgart/Leipzig. Nadon, Ch. (2001), Xenophon’s Prince. Republic and Empire in the Cyropaedia, Berkeley. Prier, R. A. (1989), Thauma Idesthai. The Phenomenology of Sight and Appearance in Archaic Greek, Tallahassee. Reeve, C. D. C. (2010), “Blindness and Reorientation. Education and the Acquisition of Knowledge in the Republic”, in: M. L. McPherran (ed.), Plato’s Republic. A Critical Guide, Cambridge, 209–228. Rutherford, I. (2004), “‘Lovers of Sights and Sounds’: Perception and its Enemies in GrecoRoman Thought” in: T. Fischer-Seidel / S. Peters / A. Potts (eds.), Perception and the Senses, Tuebingen, 67–82. Sandridge, N. (2012a), Loving Humanity, Learning and Being Honored. The Foundations of Leadership in Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus, Washington, DC. Sandridge, N. (2012b), “Wives, Subjects, Sons and Lovers: Phthonos and Entitlement in the Cyropaedia”, comment posted on the online commentary on the Cyropaedia (www.cyropaedia.org). Sigurdarson, E. S. (1998), “Plato’s Ideal of Science”, in: E. N. Ostenfeld (ed.), Essays on Plato’s Republic, Aarhus, 85–90. Spatharas, D. (2008), “Δόξα, γνώση και απάτη στον Γοργία”, in: C. Balla (ed.), Φιλοσοφία και ρητορική στην Κλασική Αθήνα, Heraklion. Szarf, J. (1998), Platons Begriff der Wahrheit, Munich. Tamiolaki, M. (2010), Liberté et esclavage chez les historiens grecs classiques, Paris. Tamiolaki, M. (2012), “Virtue and Leadership in Xenophon. Ideal Leaders or Ideal Losers?”, in: F. Hobden / Ch. Tuplin (eds.), Xenophon. Ethical Principles and Historical Enquiry, Leiden, 563–589. Tamiolaki, M. (2016), “Emotion and Persuasion in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia”, Phoenix, 40–63. Tamiolaki, M. (2017), “Xenophon’s Cyropaedia. Tentative Answers to an Enigma”, in: M. Flower (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon, Cambridge, 174–194. Too, Y. L. (1998), “Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Disfiguring the Pedagogical State”, in: Y. L. Too / N. Livingstone (eds.), Pedagogy and Power. Rhetorics of Classical Learning, Cambridge, 282–302. Verdenius, W. J. (1981) “Gorgias’ Doctrine of Deception”, in: G. B. Kerferd (ed.), The Sophists and their Legacy, Wiesbaden, 116–128. White, N. P. (1976), Plato on Knowledge and Reality, Hackett. Yolton, J. W. (2000), Realism and Appearance. An Essay in Ontology, Cambridge.

Andrea Nightingale

The Aesthetics of Vision in Plato’s Phaedo and Timaeus In his book on ancient Greek aesthetics, Porter claims that Plato believed that one can enjoy physical beauty rightly by using the sense of sight in the most minimal way. As he puts it: Platonic aesthetics is a minimalist aesthetics. It is grounded in the most intense perception of the least amount of variability and fluctuation (or becoming) and in the greatest degree of changeless, unwavering, and unadulterated essences. As a consequence, it is unfriendly to the senses: it strives for an apprehension that is least contaminated by sensory interference.1

While Porter’s claim fits Plato’s account of the “true” pleasure one experiences in seeing beautiful objects in the Philebus, it does not apply to his discourses on visual beauty in the eschatology in the Phaedo and in the Timaeus. In these texts, Plato focuses on the multi-colored phenomena on the “true earth” and the intricate “dance of the stars” in the heavens. Here, Plato celebrates physical beauties that manifest themselves in the “variegation” (poikilia) of interacting colors and movements. As scholars have noted, Plato tends to attack “variegation” in many texts. As Liebert observes: “one of Socrates’ greatest and most challenging contentions is that all forms of poikilia threaten to corrode our souls with an inherent sweetness that seems to issue from the nature of variety itself and accounts for its pleasurable effects”.2 Yet, in the Phaedo and Timaeus, Plato acclaims the beauty of variegation (poikilia). As Grand-Clément says in her discussion of the word poikilia in the realm of the arts in ancient Greece: The process of creation [of a poikilios object] lies in bringing heterogeneous elements together, as a unified whole, while they retain their own nature and keep interacting in a dynamic fashion …. The characteristic of poikilion is to create strong connections, to bond dissimilar elements.3

As I will suggest, Plato offers a vivid portayal of this bringing-together of disparate elements into a harmonious whole in his discourses on beauty in the Phae-

1 Porter 2010, 87. 2 Liebert 2010, 110. 3 Grand-Clément 2015, 415. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-018

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do and Timaeus. Plato’s emphasis on the beautiful variegation of colors and astral movements in these texts stands in stark contrast to the austere aesthetics set forth in the Philebus. Plato wrote many discourses on seeing beauty in the physical realm. In this essay, I will not examine the dialogues that deal with the beauty of young boys, which have been discussed extensively in the scholarship. Rather, I focus on Plato’s discussions of seeing beauty in the “variegation” (poikilia) of certain phenomena in the Phaedo and Timaeus. Before I turn to these discourses, I offer a brief examination of Plato’s discussion of visual beauty in the Philebus. In this text, we find an austere aesthetics that offers a useful counterpoint to the aesthetics of vision in the Phaedo and Timaeus. In particular, I discuss his claim that one can only achieve “true” pleasure when seeing a “pure” color in and of itself or an artifact that takes the shape of a geometrical form. As Plato indicates, seeing beautiful things in the physical world that have a mixture of colors and shapes does not generate true pleasure. As I suggest, this is only one (late) chapter in Plato’s aesthetics. Indeed, in the Phaedo and Timaeus, Plato valorizes phenomena that are beautiful by way of change and variegation. I then examine Plato’s depiction of the “true earth” in the eschatological myth in the Phaedo. Plato locates the true earth in realm of “aethêr” – the realm where, according to the Greek poets, the Olympian gods and some small number of blessed people lived. Plato borrows this traditional idea but changes it by placing exceptional philosophers in the “pure” realm of aethēr. This realm is pure (katharos) because aethēr is the clearest medium for seeing. But it is also pure because of the presence of the gods in this region. Strangely, Plato says very little about the philosophers’ intellectual activities or their intercourse with the gods in this myth. Instead, he focuses on the beautiful phenomena in this region. Indeed, he emphasizes the suberabundance of colorful and shiny phenomena on the “true earth”. As I argue, the beauty of these phenomena appears in the interaction and “variegation” (poikilia) of their colors. In response to this beauty, the philosophers experience intense and ongoing visual pleasure. In this eschatology, Plato sets forth an aesthetics of extravagance. Finally, I examine Plato’s portrayal of the movements of the heavenly bodies in the Timaeus. In particular, I discuss his notion that the circular motion of stars and planets take the form of a beautiful and complex “dance” (choreia). Plato claims that a divine soul with perfect intelligence (nous) moves the heavenly bodies in circles and spirals to create an intricate cosmic dance. When a philosopher beholds the heavens, then, he sees a divinely choreographed “dance of the stars” that is beautiful by way of the “variegation” of astral and planetary motions. As I argue, Plato bases his notion of the “dance of the stars” on choric dances performed at religious festivals. As scholars have noted, the spectators

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of dances at religious festivals “unite,” for a time, with the god that is invoked by the chorus (and worshipped at the festival). As Plato suggests in the Timaeus, the philosophic spectator will “unite” with the god when he watches the dance of the stars. However, the philosopher has a very different kind of religious experience when he sees the “dance of the stars” than the ordinary Greek person did when watching a choric dance. In particular, the philosopher interacts with a god that is wholly rational and perfectly good. Indeed, he “unites” with the god by using his reason to “imitate” divine nous. The philosophic spectator also has a different aesthetic response to the star-dance than the spectators had to choric dances. The Greek spectators heard a poetic song as they watched the dance. In addition, the verbal images, metaphors, and narratives in the song referred to many different objects and events. The poetic discourse and the dance movements set forth a rapid flow of meanings. The spectator of the dance performance, then, had a very complex aesthetic reaction. The philosophic spectator of the heavens, by contrast, looks at the beauty of the stars through the lens of philosophic discourse (with no poetry or music). On the visual level, he sees ongoing “variegation” in the circlings and changing positions of countless thousands of stars. But he supplements this vision with the philosophic understanding of the meaning of these complex movements. In particular, the philosopher sees that the endlessly moving stars point to one simple referent: the divine noetic soul that moves them in simple and harmonious circles. In this discourse on the beauty of the stars, then, Plato sets forth an aesthetics that is at once extravagant and simple.

The “True” Pleasure of Vision in the Philebus Before I turn to the Phaedo and Timaeus, I want to look briefly at Plato’s account of visual pleasure in the Philebus. This is a late (and very complex) dialogue and its claims should not be applied to earlier texts. Nonetheless, its discourse on the aesthetics of vision serves as a useful counterpoint to Plato’s discussions of beauty in the Phaedo and Timaeus. In analyzing sensual pleasures in the Philebus, Plato famously distinguishes between “mixed” and “unmixed” pleasures. Here, I focus on Socrates’ discussion of pleasures that are bodily (or whose source is in the body).4 As he claims, “mixed pleasures” are

4 In the Philebus, Plato distinguishes between the pleasures that originate in bodily sensation and those originating in the soul alone. I focus here on the “bodily sensation” of sight. On the topic of “true” pleasure in the Philebus, see Frede 1985. As Frede shows, Plato believed that sensual pleasures that originate in the body are in fact experienced by the soul. Indeed, Plato

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associated with bodily appetites – hunger and thirst – and come about after one feels a painful lack: the apparent pleasure is simply the sense of being restored to a painless state. As he indicates, any experience that has an admixture of pain (or originates from a painful lack) is not a “true” pleasure. “Unmixed pleasures”, by contrast, do not come into being from the experience of pain or a sense of lack. Socrates identifies sight, hearing, and smell as falling into the category of unmixed pleasures (Plato, Phil. 51d–e). Let us focus on Socrates’ discussion of sight – the vision of a beautiful physical object – and the pleasure that it produces. In defining the “true” and “unmixed” pleasure of vision, he specifically refers to the pleasure that comes from seeing “beautiful colors and forms” (51b). We may assume that one would experience “true” pleasure in seeing all beautiful colors and forms, since one does not feel a lack or pain before looking at a lovely object. But, as it turns out, the absence of this sense of lack or pain is only one factor in aesthetic pleasure. The other factor is the object of vision. For, as Socrates claims, only some visual objects generate “true” aesthetic pleasure: I am attempting now to say that the beauty of shapes is not what most people suppose, such as the beauty of living beings or paintings, but (as the argument runs) I am referring to a straight line, a globe, a plane, and solid figures that are made by turning-lathes and rulers and the joiner’s square, if you understand my point. For I say that these are beautiful not in relation to anything, like others things are, but they are always absolutely beautiful in and of themselves and have their own pleasures … and we know, don’t we, that there are colors of this kind that have beauty and pleasures of this character (51c–d).5

Here, Socrates suggests that only objects that have geometrical shapes (schēmata) generate true visual pleasure. Paintings and animate beings – which lack geometrical forms – do not. What kinds of objects is Socrates referring to here? As he claims, these “shapes” (schēmata) are created by lathes and rulers and the joiner’s square. The “shapes” are thus artifacts that come in geometrical forms (a globe, a

believed that pleasures have a propositional content and are thus associated with the moral qualities of the soul. For this reason, Socrates argues that there are “true” and “false” pleasures. See also Destrée 2105, 475–78 for a discussion of Plato’s conception of “pure” and “true” pleasures in the context of his discussion of Plato’s production of aesthetic pleasure in his own myths. 5 σχημάτων τε γὰρ κάλλος οὐχ ὅπερ ἂν ὑπολάβοιεν οἱ πολλοὶ πειρῶμαι νῦν λέγειν, ἢ ζῴων ἤ τινων ζωγραφημάτων, ἀλλ᾽ εὐθύ τι λέγω, φησὶν ὁ λόγος, καὶ περιφερὲς καὶ ἀπὸ τούτων δὴ τά τε τοῖς τόρνοις γιγνόμενα ἐπίπεδά τε καὶ στερεὰ καὶ τὰ τοῖς κανόσι καὶ γωνίαις, εἴ μου μανθάνεις. ταῦτα γὰρ οὐκ εἶναι πρός τι καλὰ λέγω, καθάπερ ἄλλα, ἀλλ᾽ ἀεὶ καλὰ καθ᾽ αὑτὰ πεφυκέναι καί τινας ἡδονὰς οἰκείας … καὶ χρώματα δὴ τοῦτον τὸν τύπον ἔχοντα καλὰ καὶ ἡδονάς ἀλλ᾽ ἆρα μανθάνομεν, ἢ πῶς;

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square, a rectangular object). Clearly, only a small number of artifacts have these forms. However, one might argue that a person can see geometrical forms in certain complex objects. Thus, if he looks at (for example) a temple, he will experience true pleasure if he focuses only on the geometrical shapes in the temple, i.e., the “bones” of the structure. However, the temple also has many adornments on it that do not come in geometrical forms (statues, acroteria, etc.). If the viewer focuses on these adornments rather than on the “bones” of the temple, he would not experience true pleasure. This is because (we infer) he would be pulled towards the bodily realm with all its base admixtures. Given the lack of textual evidence, we cannot say with any surety that Socrates would include geometrically-shaped artifacts that have added adornments, like temples, in the set of things that generate true visual pleasure. However, even if we include these artifacts as “correct” objects to look at, we are still dealing with a very small number of artifacts. Most things in the world do not have these shapes. At the end of the passage above, Socrates refers to colors as well as shapes (51d). As he claims, only a color that is seen in and of itself and not in relation to something else will create true pleasure in the viewer. What kinds of colors is he talking about? He does not address this question here, but we can infer from an earlier passage that he is speaking of “pure” colors. As Socrates stated, “pure” whiteness, with no mixture of any other color, is “more beautiful and truer” than a white that has some “mixture” of color in it (53a–b). To see a pure color, one must remove it from its interaction with other colors and admixtures.6 Indeed, one will only enjoy the “true” pleasure of color when one is looking at a single pure color in itself. This can only be achieved through subtraction. Indeed, one must blind oneself to virtually all of the phenomenal realm to see a pure color. In the Philebus, then, the vision of most beautiful objects and bodies on earth does not provide true pleasure. Only a limited set of artifacts allows one to have true visual pleasure. In the Phaedo and the Timaeus, by contrast, we find a radically different account of the aesthetic pleasure one experiences in seeing physical beauties.

6 Note that Aristotle says in the Meteorology (372a) that one cannot see unmixed colors in paintings but can see them in the red, green, and blue of the rainbow.

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The Eschatology in the Phaedo It is a commonplace that Plato elevates the Form of Beauty over individual beauties on earth. Thus, in the Phaedo, Socrates claims that what makes something beautiful is not the color or shape of a particular entity but the Form of Beauty: “If anyone says that something is beautiful by having a lovely color or shape or any other sort of thing, I let that go because I am confused by all these things, and I hold in a simple, artless, and perhaps foolish way that no other thing makes it beautiful but the presence or communion of Beauty itself (Plato, Phd. 100c–d).7

Thus, anything beautiful on earth is not beautiful in itself: it is a site for the presencing of the Form of Beauty. Indeed, Socrates suggests that the philosopher should transcend the “visible” (ὁρατόν) realm, which is “impure” and “defiled” (81b). He must embrace “that which is dark and invisible to the eyes but intelligible and graspable by philosophy” (τὸ δὲ τοῖς ὄμμασι σκοτῶδες καὶ ἀιδές, νοητὸν δὲ καὶ φιλοσοφίᾳ αἱρετόν) (81b). Given his many attacks on the bodily realm in the Phaedo – this is arguably the most body-hating of the dialogues – it comes as a surprise that Socrates celebrates the visual beauties on the “true earth” in the eschatology. It goes without saying that, in this myth, Plato sets forth a kind of philosophical “Isles of the Blessed” that rewards the philosopher with a happier life after he dies (though, in this text, the soul is immortal and thus does not stay forever in this blessed place).8 Still, this does not account for Plato’s celebration of the wondrous and variegated beauties on the “true earth”. In the Phaedo, Plato offers a cave-like myth that focuses exclu-

7 ἀλλ᾽ ἐάν τίς μοι λέγῃ δι᾽ ὅτι καλόν ἐστιν ὁτιοῦν, ἢ χρῶμα εὐανθὲς ἔχον ἢ σχῆμα ἢ ἄλλο ὁτιοῦν τῶν τοιούτων, τὰ μὲν ἄλλα χαίρειν ἐῶ, ταράττομαι γὰρ ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις πᾶσι – τοῦτο δὲ ἁπλῶς καὶ ἀτέχνως καὶ ἴσως εὐήθως ἔχω παρ᾽ ἐμαυτῷ, ὅτι οὐκ ἄλλο τι ποιεῖ αὐτὸ καλὸν ἢ ἡ ἐκείνου τοῦ καλοῦ εἴτε παρουσία εἴτε κοινωνία; On Forms as “causes” in the Phaedo, see Vlastos 1971; cf. Mueller 1998, who argues that the Forms have causal efficacy. It is beyond the scope of this essay to discuss Plato’s theory of Forms. 8 While Greek myths about the Golden Age and the Islands of the Blessed might seem to provide the models for Plato’s eschatology, many features in these myths are absent from Plato’s tale: an easy life without labor, the earth’s spontaneous production of food, and the feasting and merrymaking of the inhabitants (see, e.g., Hesiod Op. 109–19, 170–73; Pindar O. 2.61–67). Note that the Greek geographic writings provide many elements in Socrates’ tale: the references to Earth, Ocean and the Pillars of Heracles; the notion of the distant parts of the earth; references to weather, flora, fauna and the abundance of gold and other precious goods. For an analysis of Plato’s myth as a response to geographic discourses, see Nightingale 2001. For useful discussions of Plato’s myth, see Hackforth 1972, 166–86; Annas 1985; Rowe 1993, 265–90, Morgan 2001, 192–200; Brill 2009.

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sively on the physical realm – both the lower region (which has cavelike “hollows”) and the higher region are part of the physical realm.9 As Socrates states: We think that we live on the upper surface of the earth but do not perceive that we live in the hollows of the earth, just as if someone who lives in the depth of the sea should believe that he dwells on the surface of the ocean, and, seeing the sun and the stars through the water, should believe that the sea was the sky. This person, because of laziness or weakness, would never have reached the surface of the ocean and seen–by rising and lifting his head out of the sea into that region there – how much purer and more beautiful it is than the world he lived in …. But if anyone should journey to the top of the air or, being winged, should fly upwards, he could lift his head above it and see things in that upper world just as fishes push their heads out of the water and see the things in our world. And if he has a nature that is able to endure the sight, he would know that this is the true heaven and the true light and the true earth (109b–110a).

Clearly, the realm above us is far more beautiful than the one we live in. This is in part due to the “purity” of the region. As Socrates puts it, “the earth itself is pure and lies in the pure heaven where the stars are, which many of those accustomed to speaking about such things call the aethēr” (αὐτὴν δὲ τὴν γῆν καθαρὰν ἐν καθαρῷ κεῖσθαι τῷ οὐρανῷ ἐν ᾧπέρ ἐστι τὰ ἄστρα, ὃν δὴ αἰθέρα ὀνομάζειν τοὺς πολλοὺς τῶν περὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα εἰωθότων λέγειν, 109b–c). Note that the “aethēr” is “pure” (katharos) in part because it is the medium through which one can have perfect vision: in the aethēr, the philosophers see things in the natural world “as they really are”. However, Socrates also suggests that the aethēr is “pure” because it houses philosophers who, due to their intellectual and ethical goodness, dwell near to the gods. In Greek poetry, “aethēr” is the realm where the gods and certain blessed people dwell, above the “aēr” on earth.10 In the Phaedo, Plato follows the poets by identifying “aethēr” as a 9 This cave myth differs from the Allegory of the Cave, where the region outside the cave is incorporeal (i.e., the realm of the Forms). Note that, in the Phaedo, Socrates refers to a higher realm beyond the “true earth”: “Those who seem to have lived especially holy lives are freed from these regions here in the earth and released as though from prisons; they move up to a pure home and dwell upon the earth. Of these, those that have been purified sufficiently by philosophy henceforth live entirely without bodies and arrive at homes even more beautiful than these” (114c). Thus, the “true earth” is a step below this higher (incorporeal) realm. 10 On aethēr as the divine abode, see (e.g.) Il. 2.449, 4.413, 5.191–92; 8. 555–57, 14. 287; Hymn to Demeter 67, 70, 457; Hymn to Apollo 434; Hymn to Ares 551, 560; S. Aj. 1192, OT 867, Ant. 415; OC 1983. On the aethēr as the place for certain blessed people, see Csapo (2008, 274–75), who discusses (1) poems that identify certain exceptional people (like Helen, Phaethon, etc.) as dwelling in the aethēr after they die, and (2) the many epitaphs that state that the dead person (who has been initiated into the Eleusinian mysteries) has gone to the aethēr. Cf. Sedley (1989, 362–63), who claims that in the Phaedo eschatology Plato is borrowing the notion of aethēr specifically from Anaxagoras, who is explicitly discussed and attacked earlier in the dialogue. This is problematic because (as Sedley himself notes) Anaxagoras associates “aethēr” with fire.

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higher realm. As we will see, he changes the traditional notion of the aethereal realm by allowing exceptional philosophers to live there. In this myth, Socrates posits three levels of physical reality: the cavernous hollows in the earth where we live, the surface of the “true earth,” and the sea. People like ourselves dwelling in the hollows live in a dark realm and breathe air. As Socrates claims, “this earth and the stones and the entire region here [in the hollows] is decaying and eaten away” (ἥδε μὲν γὰρ ἡ γῆ καὶ οἱ λίθοι καὶ ἅπας ὁ τόπος ὁ ἐνθάδε διεφθαρμένα ἐστὶν καὶ καταβεβρωμένα, 110a). By locating ordinary human beings (like ourselves) in the hollows beneath the surface of the earth, Plato places his focus on the aspects of the earthly world that decay and die away. In addition, he suggests that the air in the hollows blocks our present view of the “true” earth and heavenly beings above (this includes the sun in its “pure” splendor).11 The second realm, the sea, is lower than our own. As Socrates indicates, the medium of the water obstructs vision: it is full of mud and mire and does not allow for much life (“nothing of any account grows in the sea”, οὔτε φύεται ἄξιον λόγου οὐδὲν ἐν τῇ θαλάττῃ, 110a). As in our world, the things in the sea are “decaying and being eaten away”; they are corroded by the salt water much more than our world is corroded by air and other elements. Indeed, the lower realm of the sea does not have the beautiful things that we have here: “to judge in comparison with the beautiful things in our world, there is nothing worth anything there” (πρὸς τὰ παρ᾽ ἡμῖν κάλλη κρίνεσθαι οὐδ᾽ ὁπωστιοῦν ἄξια, 110a). The third realm is the “true earth,” a place above ours located in the aethēr. As Socrates claims, in the aetherial realm, “the earth itself is pure and sits in the pure heaven” (αὐτὴν δὲ τὴν γῆν καθαρὰν ἐν καθαρῷ κεῖσθαι τῷ οὐρανῷ, 109b). There is of course change in this realm – mortal people, animals and plants live there – but Socrates does not focus on deterioration and death. Instead, he places most of his emphasis on the purity, perfection, and beauty of this region.12 In contrast to Socrates’ earlier attack on the “constantly

Clearly, Plato does not identify the aethereal region as fiery. In my view, Plato bases his myth of the “true earth” in the “aethēr” on poetic discourses and on religious and mystic rites. 11 As Brill points out (2009, 18), “The perspective of one who occupies a hollow, like the perspective of one who lives under the sea, is not utterly erroneous; rather, it is flawed only because it is fragmentary. It is a perspective that does not yet take its own position under consideration”. 12 As Rowe (1993, 275–76) suggests, the hierarchical ordering of the physical realm – with the true earth in the aethēr, the hollows in the air, and the water in the sea – indicates that each level of the cosmos participates in the Forms in a different degree; he adds, rightly in my view, that the myth does not offer “any further useful information about the form-particular hypothesis”.

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changing visible realm” (79a) that pulls the soul away from reason and goodness, we find here a “pure” visible realm where the changing landscape is resplendent with beauty. In his portrayal of the “true earth” in the eschatology, Socrates focuses almost entirely on the radiant colors of this region. Although he refers to the people who dwell in this place, he mentions them only in passing: instead, he discusses the variegation (poikilia) of colors in this region. Of the colors on the “true earth” – which are “far more numerous” than the ones in our realm – Socrates explicitly mentions purple, yellow-gold, white (110b–c). He also mentions emeralds, jasper, and carnelian gemstones, and gold and silver metals (110d–111b). It is worth noting that the Greeks conceived of colors in terms of light and darkness.13 Thus, to take the simplest examples, white colors were associated with light and black colors with darkness. Indeed, as Sassi has observed, ancient Greek philosophers in their discourses on color considered “brilliance” (lampron) a color, thus identifying shining light as a color.14 In the Timaeus, Plato identifies “brilliant-and-glittering” (lampron te kai stilbon) as one of the four basic colors (the other three are white, black, and red; 68a).15 While he does not discuss the basic colors in the Phaedo, Plato does use the words lampron and stilbon to describe objects on the true earth (110b, 110c). In addition, he says that when one stands in the higher realm and looks at the air (in its “oceanic” spread below the aether), it “glitters” (stilbonta, 110b) in the sun in the midst of other colorful elements.16 We can infer that glittering lights are associated with color in the Phaedo. Finally, we must note that all the colors on the true earth can be seen through the “pure” medium of aether in the “true light of the sun” (109e). In the eschatology in the Phaedo, the viewer cannot take in the complex beauties of the colors in the region all at once. Indeed, Socrates describes the

13 See Irwin 1974 and Sassi 2105 on Greek conceptions of color. For a discussion of philosophical theories of vision in the classical period (especially Democritus, Plato, Aristotle, Theophrastus), see Nightingale 2015. 14 Sassi 2105, 265. For a useful discussion of the painters’ “mixture” of the four basic pigments into a vast number of colors in Greek antiquity, see Brecoulaki 2015. Note her claim that “The expansion of intermixtures [by painters] between the four pigments alone could in fact produce 819 color variations. Despite the negative connotation that the word ‘mixture’ (krasis, mixis) was occasionally endowed with in textual sources, due to its metaphorical association with decay, corruption (pthora), and alteration (metabolē, alloiōsis), the very practice of mixing pigments by painters, either by physical blending or by superimposition of multiple paint layers, is well documented in surviving Classical and Hellenistic painting” (224). 15 On the notion of the “brilliant” as a color, see also Arist. Sens. 3.439b32–440a6; Thphr. de Sens. Sign. 76–78. 16 More on this below.

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beauties of this realm from different positions and perspectives. Consider first his depiction of the god’s-eye view of the earth from above: The earth when seen from above looks like balls made up of twelve pieces of leather, variegated (ποικίλη) in appearance and divided into patches of color (χρώμασιν διειλημμένη) of which the colors we see here are samples (as it were) such as painters use. But there the whole earth is made of such colors and of those more brilliant and purer (λαμπροτέρων καὶ καθαρωτέρων) than those here. For one part is purple, wondrous in its beauty, and another is golden, and yet another is white – whiter than chalk or snow. And the earth is made up of other colors of a similar kind, which are more numerous and more beautiful than those we see here (110b–c).17

Socrates’ discourse on the “more numerous and beautiful” colors on the “true earth” is truly remarkable. Here, in stark contrast to the Philebus, the philosophic viewer beholds beauty in the “variegation” and interaction of different colors. To be sure, each color may be “pure” in and of itself, but it is the combination of colors that makes the earth beautiful. Socrates explicitly remarks upon the variegation of these colors. For example, using the model from our region of someone on the coast looking down at the ocean, he portrays the view from a beach on the “true earth” where one looks down at the “ocean of air” (which contains the hollows and sea-water at the bottom of the air). To those standing on a beach looking at an air-ocean, “these very hollows of the earth, being full of water and air, offer a colorful appearance as they glitter among the variegation of the other colors, so that its appearance is one of continuous variegation” (καὶ γὰρ αὐτὰ ταῦτα τὰ κοῖλα αὐτῆς, ὕδατός τε καὶ ἀέρος ἔκπλεα ὄντα, χρώματός τι εἶδος παρέχεσθαι στίλβοντα ἐν τῇ τῶν ἄλλων χρωμάτων ποικιλίᾳ, ὥστε ἕν τι αὐτῆς εἶδος συνεχὲς ποικίλον φαντάζεσθαι, 110c–d). From the point of view of someone standing on this beach, then, the hollows at the bottom of the air-ocean appear to “glitter” by their interaction with the other colors that are in and around the “air-ocean”. This indicates that the philosophic viewer on the “true earth” sees even the lower elements (the hollows, the sea-water, and the air itself) as beautiful. To those living below in the hollows, by contrast, the phenomena appear ugly and “corroded”. On the “true earth,” then, the lower regions provide a beautiful color-contrast in relation to the top of the air-ocean and to the aethereal realm above it. Thus,

17 πρῶτον μὲν εἶναι τοιαύτη ἡ γῆ αὐτὴ ἰδεῖν, εἴ τις ἄνωθεν θεῷτο, ὥσπερ αἱ δωδεκάσκυτοι σφαῖραι, ποικίλη, χρώμασιν διειλημμένη, ὧν καὶ τὰ ἐνθάδε εἶναι χρώματα ὥσπερ δείγματα, οἷς δὴ οἱ γραφῆς καταχρῶνται. ἐκεῖ δὲ πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν ἐκ τοιούτων εἶναι, καὶ πολὺ ἔτι ἐκ λαμπροτέρων καὶ καθαρωτέρων ἢ τούτων: τὴν μὲν γὰρ ἁλουργῆ εἶναι καὶ θαυμαστὴν τὸ κάλλος, τὴν δὲ χρυσοειδῆ, τὴν δὲ ὅση λευκὴ γύψου ἢ χιόνος λευκοτέραν, καὶ ἐκ τῶν ἄλλων χρωμάτων συγκειμένην ὡσαύτως, καὶ ἔτι πλειόνων καὶ καλλιόνων ἢ ὅσα ἡμεῖς ἑωράκαμεν.

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the viewer on the surface of the earth sees a “continuous variegation” (suneches poikilon) of colors glittering in the aethēr and sun. Socrates also emphasizes the translucent beauties of the phenomena on the surface of the true earth: The mountains and the stones are smooth and diaphanous and their colors are more beautiful. And the gems we so admire here – carnelians, jaspers, emeralds, and all such things – are fragments of the things there, and in that place there is nothing that is not of such a kind and even more beautiful than these. And the reason for this is that the stones are pure and not eaten away and corrupted, as those things here are, by decay and brine coming from the things that flow together here, which cause ugliness and disease in stones, the earth, and the other animals and plants. And the earth there is adorned (κεκοσμῆσθαι) with all such gems and with gold and silver and other such things. And these things are in plain sight, being abundant and large and everywhere, so that the earth is a sight for blessed spectators to behold (110d–111a).18

In this ornate discourse, Socrates suggests that this realm is “adorned” (κεκοσμῆσθαι) with gems, gold, and silver, like a wonderfully complicated artifact. Note that the gems and metals are not found in any special arrangement on earth: they are “abundant” (polla plēthei) and show up “everywhere” (pantachou). Here, the mountains and stones – made “diaphanous” by light – radiate beauty in the interaction of their colors. We must note also that Plato associates this beautiful region with divinity. As we have seen, by elevating the realm of “aethēr” over that of “aēr,” Plato follows the poets in identifying the aetherial region as the place where the gods dwelled. Indeed, as Socrates claims in the eschatology, the gods are “truly dwellers” (τῷ ὄντι οἰκητὰς θεοὺς) in the temples in the aethereal realm (111b). For this reason, the philosophical people who live there are able to have direct contact with the gods: And they have groves and temples of the gods, in which the gods are truly dwellers, and utterances and prophecies and perceptions of the gods, and such communions take place

18 καὶ αὖ τὰ ὄρη ὡσαύτως καὶ τοὺς λίθους ἔχειν ἀνὰ τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον τήν τε λειότητα καὶ τὴν διαφάνειαν καὶ τὰ χρώματα καλλίω: ὧν καὶ τὰ ἐνθάδε λιθίδια εἶναι ταῦτα τὰ ἀγαπώμενα μόρια, σάρδιά τε καὶ ἰάσπιδας καὶ σμαράγδους καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα: ἐκεῖ δὲ οὐδὲν ὅτι οὐ τοιοῦτον εἶναι καὶ ἔτι τούτων καλλίω. τὸ δ᾽ αἴτιον τούτου εἶναι ὅτι ἐκεῖνοι οἱ λίθοι εἰσὶ καθαροὶ καὶ οὐ κατεδηδεσμένοι οὐδὲ διεφθαρμένοι ὥσπερ οἱ ἐνθάδε ὑπὸ σηπεδόνος καὶ ἅλμης ὑπὸ τῶν δεῦρο συνερρυηκότων, ἃ καὶ λίθοις καὶ γῇ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ζῴοις τε καὶ φυτοῖς αἴσχη τε καὶ νόσους παρέχει. τὴν δὲ γῆν αὐτὴν κεκοσμῆσθαι τούτοις τε ἅπασι καὶ ἔτι χρυσῷ τε καὶ ἀργύρῳ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις αὖ τοῖς τοιούτοις. ἐκφανῆ γὰρ αὐτὰ πεφυκέναι, ὄντα πολλὰ πλήθει καὶ μεγάλα καὶ πανταχοῦ τῆς γῆς, ὥστε αὐτὴν ἰδεῖν εἶναι θέαμα εὐδαιμόνων θεατῶν.

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in a direct way, and they see the sun and moon and stars as they really are, and the rest of their happiness follows upon this (111b–c).19

Clearly, the philosophers live much closer to divinity in this region. It is for this reason that Socrates calls the true earth a “sight for blessed spectators to behold” (αὐτὴν ἰδεῖν εἶναι θέαμα εὐδαιμόνων θεατῶν, 111a). We can infer that the dazzling beauty of the region is linked, at least in part, to the presence of the gods. To be sure, Plato does not offer an explicit discussion of the role that the gods play in this scheme: this is an eschatology, not a cosmology or a discourse on metaphysics. It is thus impossible to fully locate the gods in a cosmic scheme here (or to understand their relation to the Forms). Still, we can say that Plato places exceptional philosophers in a beautiful region in which they have direct contact with the gods. Given Plato’s general preference for unity over multiplicity, one might expect this higher world to be simpler than our own. In fact, it is far more various: the philosophers see more colors (and interactions of colors) in the phenomena. Surprisingly, Plato does not discuss the intellectual activities of the philosophers on the “true earth”. The only thing he says is that men living there who have been “sufficiently purified by philosophy” will leave their bodies entirely after death and move to an incorporeal region (114d). Clearly, the people on the “true earth” will be regularly practicing philosophy. Indeed, based on Plato’s discourse on the Forms earlier in the dialogue, we can infer that the philosophers living in this higher realm will understand that the visual beauties they see are derived from the Form of Beauty. Still, it is significant that Plato does not spell this out to the reader. Instead, he emphasizes the intense aesthetic pleasure that the philosophers have when they simply behold these visual beauties. As we will see, in the Timaeus Plato explains how the philosopher “rightly” beholds the stars: in particular, his vision of the star-dance must be informed by the philosophic apprehension that the stars point to an invisible and divine referent. In the Phaedo, Plato does not explicitly link the vision of the extravagant beauties on the “true earth” to the contemplation of the Forms. Although we can infer that the “referent” of the beauties on the “true earth” is the Form of Beauty, we are still left to puzzle over the exact connection between the “countless” and “variegated” beauties on the earth (and in the measureless “air-ocean”) and the unitary and unchanging Form of Beauty. In this eschatology, then, Plato sets forth an aesthetics of extravagance.

19 καὶ δὴ καὶ θεῶν ἄλση τε καὶ ἱερὰ αὐτοῖς εἶναι, ἐν οἷς τῷ ὄντι οἰκητὰς θεοὺς εἶναι, καὶ φήμας τε καὶ μαντείας καὶ αἰσθήσεις τῶν θεῶν καὶ τοιαύτας συνουσίας γίγνεσθαι αὐτοῖς πρὸς αὐτούς: καὶ τόν γε ἥλιον καὶ σελήνην καὶ ἄστρα ὁρᾶσθαι ὑπ᾽ αὐτῶν οἷα τυγχάνει ὄντα, καὶ τὴν ἄλλην εὐδαιμονίαν τούτων ἀκόλουθον εἶναι.

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The “Dance of the Stars” in the Timaeus When we move from the myth in the Phaedo to the Timaeus, we enter into cosmology.20 Here, I will focus on Plato’s descriptions of the beauty of the heavenly bodies as they move in time. Whereas the philosophers on the true earth in the Phaedo saw beauty immediately, wherever they looked, the beauty of the “dance of the stars” in the Timaeus is only seen in the passing of time. This is because the stars move into different positions in the sky as the night passes (and in the weeks and months of the year). While one can look at the heavens at a given moment in the night and see the beauty of the stars, Plato wants the philosopher to view the motions of the stars as they circle along different axes and at different speeds over long periods of time. This means that the philosopher must view the heavens regularly throughout the year. In order to conjure up the beauty of heavenly bodies moving collectively in orderly rotations throughout the year, Plato uses the image of the dance (choreia). Since a divine soul moves the heavenly bodies in the cosmos in circular motions, the cosmic bodies perform a harmonious dance as they move over time. Let us look, first, at Plato’s account of motion in the Timaeus. As he claims, “self-moving” souls move all bodies in the world (bodies do not move themselves).21 In the cosmos as a whole, a divine and incorporeal soul – the “WorldSoul” – moves the stars, sun, moon and planets around the earth.22 Indeed, the World-Soul moves the stars and planets in perfect circles and spirals in the cosmic sphere. Note that Plato regularly favors circular motion over rectilinear motions: as he says in the Timaeus, this is the only kind of motion that is “rational” (Pl. Ti. 34a; 43b). To explain this strange idea, Plato claims that circular motion resembles reason because it is simple, orderly, and moves around the same center in a regular and uniform way.23 20 As Sedley 1989, 360 has suggested, the myth in the Phaedo offers the beginning of a cosmology. 21 At 89a, Timaeus indicates that the World-Soul (and souls in general) are self-moving: “of all motions that is the best which is produced in a thing by itself” (τῶν δ᾽ αὖ κινήσεων ἡ ἐν ἑαυτῷ ὑφ᾽ αὑτοῦ ἀρίστη κίνησι, 89a1–2), for it is most akin to the motion of thought and of the universe. Note also 37b5, where “discourse” is said to go on “within the thing that is selfmoved” (ἐν τῷ κινουμένῳ ὑφ᾽ αὑτοῦ φερόμενος). On the self-moving soul, see Taylor 1928, 148, 178; Mohr 1985, 174; Cornford 1956, 95 n. 2. 22 As Plato argues, the stars move in circular rotations while the planets move in spirals (and do not “wander,” as they seem to do; 36c–d). For a detailed discussion of planetary motion in the Timaeus, see Cornford 1956, 72–90. 23 As Plato claims, because the movement of nous in the soul “resembles” circular motion, the circle-like motion of the World-Soul’s nous moves the stars and the planets in circular and spiral revolutions. The only argument that the movement of nous resembles circular motion is found in Laws 10 (Plato simply takes this for granted in the Timaeus). As Plato puts it, like

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We must note also that the physical cosmos is an image of the Form of the Cosmos or, as Plato calls it, the “Intelligible Living Being” (30c).24 As he claims, the intelligible cosmos is the “fairest and most perfect of all intelligible beings” (τῷ γὰρ τῶν νοουμένων καλλίστῳ καὶ κατὰ πάντα τελέῳ, 30d). The physical cosmos, being a copy of the intelligible cosmos, is ontologically inferior.25 In particular, whereas the intelligible cosmos does not move or change (it is eternal), the physical cosmos moves and changes over time. Once again, we see Plato privileging the unified, changeless, and eternal forms over the multiple, changing, and temporal particulars in the visible realm. In spite of his valorization of the incorporeal and intelligible forms, however, Plato sets forth a very positive view of physical vision in the Timaeus. As he claims: Vision (opsis) is the cause of the greatest benefit to us, since no account of the universe would have ever been given if men had not seen (idontōn) the stars or sun or heaven. The vision of day and night and the months and the revolutions of the years has created the art of number, and it has given us the notion of time as well as the ability to investigate the nature of the universe. From these things we have procured philosophy – and there is no greater good that the gods have given us than this. This, I claim, is the greatest benefit of eyesight (47a–b).

In this account, the ultimate goal of vision is the practice of philosophy. Note that astronomy plays an essential role in philosophy, since it enables the philosopher to examine and understand the astral and planetary motions in the cosmos.26 According to Plato, “without recourse to [the heavens], we humans cannot discern the divine objects for which we strive, or apprehend them

things that move in circles in the physical realm, nous “moves regularly, uniformly, within the same compass, around the same center and in the same direction, according to one formula and one orderly plan” (leg. 898a8–9). For a useful discussion of Plato’s link between nous and circular motion, see Lee 1976. 24 The “Intelligible Living Being” contains all of the living intelligible Forms (30c). It is beyond the scope of this essay to discuss the question whether the Intelligible Living Being is a single form or an organized group of forms. For a discussion of the cosmos as an “image” or “likeness” of the Intelligible Living Being, see Broadie 2012, 71–73. 25 The physical cosmos is a perfect image of the Forms of wholeness, sphericity, beauty, order, harmony, and eternity. 26 In particular, the philosopher needs to “prove” by mathematical calculations that the stars move in circular motions (along different axes and in different diameters) and that the planets move in spirals. For some useful analyses of Greek astronomy, see Dicks 1970, Lloyd 1979, 169– 225, 1987, 235–41, 304–19. On Plato’s approach to astronomy, see Vlastos 1980, Sedley 1989, 377, and Mueller 1992, 192–94 (cf. Mourelatos 1981, who claims that Plato’s astronomy focuses on kinematics rather than the study of celestial motions).

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or in any way partake of them” (69a). This text, then, issues a strong endorsement of visual perception, at least when it is directed towards the heavens.27 Plato emphasizes that the stars in the heaven are “visible gods” (40d), since they are moved by the World-Soul.28 The World-Soul is fully rational and moves the stars in orderly revolutions in the sphere of the cosmos. Not surprisingly, the universe is not only good – because it is moved by divine intelligence – but radiantly beautiful: “the cosmos is the most beautiful (κάλλιστoς) of created things” (28e–29a).29 In the motion of the stars, then, the philosopher sees a visible manifestation of divine intelligence. Plato emphasizes the beauty and artistry of the heavens in a number of passages. First, he says that a superdivine Demiurge (demiourgos) created the cosmos as a divine and “variegated” work of art. The Demiurge made the body of the divine [stars] for the most part out of fire, so that this would be as bright as possible to see and the most beautiful (ὅπως ὅτι λαμπρότατον ἰδεῖν τε κάλλιστον εἴη). Likening it to the [intelligible] cosmos, he made it spherical, and he placed it in the intelligence of the most powerful god so that the cosmos would be led by it; and he apportioned things all around the heavens, which is a true adornment variegated over the whole (κόσμον ἀληθινὸν αὐτῷ πεποικιλμένον εἶναι καθ᾽ ὅλον, 40a)30

By bringing together the two senses of the word “kosmos” – a “universe” and a beautiful artistic “adornment” – Plato identifies the heavens as a cosmic

27 As Sedley (1989, 377) suggests, in the Timaeus “astronomy becomes par excellence the discipline which can bridge the gulf between the sensible and intelligible worlds” (see also Sedley 1999). Note that Timaeus claims that one can practice astronomy incorrectly: one must not study the heavens in the belief that “the most sure proofs about these matters come through sight” (91e). The “proofs” are found by way of mathematics. 28 Note that there are two kinds of “cosmic gods” in the Timaeus: (1) the World-Soul (the “greatest of the gods”) that moves all of the stars and planets in the sphere of the universe (42a–b; see Taylor 1928, 148); (2) the divine soul of each individual star that moves just the star in a circular motion (40b). In addition to the cosmic gods, there are two other classes of gods in the Timaeus. First, there are the creator gods: the Demiurge and his underlings (who create the mortal beings in the cosmos; 41c–d), and second, the traditional Homeric gods (40d–41a). Unfortunately, Plato does not clarify the relation between the creator gods, the cosmic gods, and the traditional gods. 29 Throughout his corpus, Plato associates beauty with goodness. For an excellent analysis of the beauty in the cosmos in the Timaeus (and the link between beauty and goodness), see O’Meara forthcoming. 30 τοῦ μὲν οὖν θείου τὴν πλείστην ἰδέαν ἐκ πυρὸς ἀπηργάζετο, ὅπως ὅτι λαμπρότατον ἰδεῖν τε κάλλιστον εἴη, τῷ δὲ παντὶ προσεικάζων εὔκυκλον ἐποίει, τίθησίν τε εἰς τὴν τοῦ κρατίστου φρόνησιν ἐκείνῳ συνεπόμενον, νείμας περὶ πάντα κύκλῳ τὸν οὐρανόν, κόσμον ἀληθινὸν αὐτῷ πεποικιλμένον εἶναι καθ᾽ ὅλον.

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artwork. This cosmic artwork – with its countless stars circling along different axes at different speeds – is “variegated over the whole.” As Plato says in the last line of the dialogue, the physical cosmos is “a visible image of intelligible being – a single and unique cosmos – and is the greatest and the best and the most beautiful and the most perfect” (92c). Indeed, he indicates that viewers see in the heavens an agalma. As he says, the Demiurge who created the cosmos “rejoiced” when he perceived that it was “a sacred image (agalma) of the eternal gods” (37c). Here, Plato suggests that the physical cosmos itself is an “agalma”, i.e., a beautiful artwork dedicated to a god. The word “agalma” in the classical period referred primarily to statues of the gods but could also be used of choric dances at religious festivals.31 Since Plato compares the motion of the stars to a “choric dance” (choreia; 40c), we can identify the cosmic agalma as a dance rather than a statue. As Steiner points out, statues and choric dances shared key elements as artistic agalmata: A chorus is, from the outset, a supremely artisanal object. Not only do a set of factural terms (“weaving”, “cutting”, “fitting together”) describe the activity of the chorus leader as he arranges his dancers in formation, but members of the choruses are adorned much in the manner of works of art, decked out in the same brilliant garments and exhibiting the same jewelry and polychrome sandals displayed by sculpted korai …. Radiance is also a sine qua non of a richly ornamented dancing group whose sparkle emanates with particular intensity from the feet that execute the steps.32

In the agalma of the dance, the chorus members move together in careful formations as they shine in brilliant clothing and adornments. In describing the spectacle of the circling stars as an agalma, Plato reached for the choric dance with its harmonious movements and sparkling radiance. Of course, in Plato, the dance was performed by divine chorus members (the stars moved by the World-Soul) and created by a divine craftsman (the Demiurge). Still, it is clear that Plato was thinking of artistic dances at religious festivals when he identified the collective movements of the stars as a visual agalma of a higher god. We should note that Plato did not invent the notion of the “dance of the stars”: this idea is found in fifth-century drama and in Pythagorean thought.33 Let me cite a few examples. In Euripides’ Electra, the chorus refers to the “the aethereal choruses of the stars” (ἄστρων τ᾽ αἰθέριοι χοροί; 467). In a more de-

31 Kurke 2012, 223–24, Steiner 2014, 31–32. 32 Steiner 2014, 32. See also Kurke 2012, 223–24. 33 Csapo 2008 discusses the “dance of the stars” in the context of cult, myth, poetry, and philosophy. As he points out, the tragic and comic choruses danced in a rectangular formation (in contrast to the dithyrambic circular choruses). Thus, the tragic choruses’ references to stars dancing in circles are not meant to be self-referential.

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tailed passage in Euripides’ (or Critias’) Pirithous, the chorus addresses an unnamed god around whom the sun and stars dance: you, self-generated, entwining the nature of all things in an aethereal whirl – you, around whom the sun and also the dark, star-spangled night and the countless throng of the stars dance unceasingly. (Critias fr. 4 TrGF = Eur. fr. 593 N.)34

Finally, Philolaus, a fifth-century Pythagorean, claimed that the stars, sun, moon, earth and counter-earth “dance” (choreuein) around the hearth of the universe.35 Plato was no doubt aware of these poetic and philosophic discourses (he was especially attracted to Pythagorean thought). However, in contrast to his predecessors, Plato analyzes the dance of the stars and offers an account of the aesthetic and religious response that the philosophic spectator had to the star-dance. Plato describes the complex choreography of the stars in some detail. In particular, he refers to the “stars’ crossings with one another, and the returnings and partings of their circlings, and those star-gods who move in relation to one another by coming together and those who move in opposing positions, and what star-gods pass before each other and the times when each is hidden from view and when they come into view again.”36 Here, Plato uses the language of dance movements – circlings, coming together, moving apart, the order of the movements, etc. – to depict the movements of the stars. Indeed, he says that “the movements of these bodies are wondrously variegated” (πεποικιλμένας δὲ θαυμαστῶς, 39d). Although the stars and planets move in circles and spirals, which are simple motions, the collective movements make up an intricate and variegated dance.

34 σὲ τὸν αὐτοφυῆ, τὸν ἐν αἰθερίῳ | ῥύμβῳ πάντων φύσιν ἐμπλέξανθ᾿, | ὃν πέρι μὲν φῶς, πέρι δ᾿ ὀρφναία | νὺξ αἰολόχρως ἄκριτός τ᾿ ἄστρων | ὄχλος ἐνδελεχῶς ἀμφιχορεύει … Note also the references to star-dances in S. Ant. 1146–53; E. IT 1078–79; E. Phaet. 63–66 (see also Csapo 2008). 35 44 A16 DK: πῦρ ἐν μέσῳ περὶ τὸ κέντρον ὅπερ ἑστίαν τοῦ παντὸς καλεῖ … περὶ δὲ τοῦτο δέκα σώματα θεῖα χορεύειν; 44 A16 DK). As Aristotle noted in the de Caelo (283a), the Pythagoreans believed that the stars and earth revolved around a central fire. Note that Plato puts earth (not fire) at the center of the universe in the Timaeus (see also Phaedrus 247a, where the gods are called a “divine chorus” that move around the “hearth” of the earth). 36 40c: χορείας δὲ τούτων αὐτῶν καὶ παραβολὰς ἀλλήλων, καὶ περὶ τὰς τῶν κύκλων πρὸς ἑαυτοὺς ἐπανακυκλήσεις καὶ προχωρήσεις, ἔν τε ταῖς συνάψεσιν ὁποῖοι τῶν θεῶν κατ᾽ ἀλλήλους γιγνόμενοι καὶ ὅσοι καταντικρύ, μεθ᾽ οὕστινάς τε ἐπίπροσθεν ἀλλήλοις ἡμῖν τε κατὰ χρόνους οὕστινας ἕκαστοι κατακαλύπτονται καὶ πάλιν ἀναφαινόμενοι.

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We must note, too, that the Greeks associated dances with light. As Peponi has shown, in Greek poetry, choral dances were seen as sparkling with light.37 To cite a few examples, take the scene in the Odyssey where Odysseus watches the Phaiacian dancers and marvels as he “gazes at the twinklings (marmarugas) of their feet” (260–65). In the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (201–3), shining lights flash out from the dance of Apollo and the chorus of gods on Olympus: “Apollo plays his lyre stepping high and fitly, and a radiance shines around him and the gleaming of his feet and close-woven vest [shine around him]” (ὁ Φοῖβος Άπόλλων ἐγκιθαρίζει καλὰ καὶ ὕψι βιβάς: αἴγλη δέ μιν ἀμφιφαείνει μαρμαρυγαί τε ποδῶν καὶ ἐυκλώστοιο χιτῶνος; trans. Evelyn-White). Note that the word marmarugē refers to the twinkling or gleaming of light in an object.38 As a Homeric scholiast puts it: “marmarugē denotes the emission of light (apostilpsis) and the sort of brilliance (lampēdon) that derives from intense movement.”39 Thus, in the Timaeus, Plato identifies “marmarugē” as the “dazzled” response that the viewer has when he sees something that is “brilliant and glittering” (μαρμαρυγὰς μὲν τὸ πάθος προσείπομεν, τὸ δὲ τοῦτο ἀπεργαζόμενον λαμπρόν τε καὶ στίλβον ἐπωνομάσαμεν; 68a). In his discussion of the “star dance”, then, Plato was drawing on the notion that choric dances radiated light. By conjuring up a dance, Plato makes use of a cultural practice that was central to religious life in ancient Greece: circular dances at religious festivals. As a beautiful art form designed to honor the gods, the dance generated a religious and aesthetic response. I want to focus first on the religious aspects of the dance. As Kurke has suggested, “a beautiful choral performance was thought to conjure divine presence at a festival, while for the space of the song and dance, the chorus and human audience fused or merged, and both were briefly assimilated to the divine.”40 At a religious festival, then, the dancers and viewers temporarily unite (“fuse”) with the gods. As I argue, we find a very similar phenomenon in Plato, where the philosopher views the dance of the stars in the heavens. In particular, the philosopher unites with the gods when he sees the divine dance in the heavens. To make this case, we must look briefly at the rational part of the human soul in the Timaeus. In this dialogue, the human soul is tripartite: it has an

37 Peponi 2015, 212–13 discusses the impression of light that the dancers give to the viewers. See also Kurke 2012, 228, Steiner 2014, 32. 38 On marmarugē in the context of the “light” that shone out in dances, see Peponi 2004, 302–8; 2015, 212–13 (see also Kurke 2012, 228–29. who associates marmarugē with the glimmering of metals as they shine in the sun). 39 Scholia BPQV on Odyssey 8.265. 40 Kurke 2012, 222.

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immortal and divine part (reason) and two mortal and irrational parts (spirit and appetite). The Demiurge created the rational part of the soul – nous – out of the same element as divine nous, though he gave humans nous that was less pure than that of the gods (41d). In addition to having nous, humans have irrational parts of their souls and unruly bodies: these obstruct the right use of reason. As I have mentioned above, Plato claimed that nous has a circular motion. In the heavens, one can see the motion of nous in the circular motion of the stars. Indeed, in viewing the heavens, the philosopher can unite with the gods by “assimilating” his reason to divine nous: The motions of the thoughts and revolutions of the universe are kindred to the divine part of the human soul. Each of us, then, must follow together with these celestial motions, rectifying the revolutions within his mind, which were corrupted at birth, by learning the harmonies and revolutions of the universe, and assimilating his thinking part to the object of his thought, in accordance with its original nature.41 (90c–d)

Of course, the philosopher can only unite with the gods if he views the heavenly bodies correctly. He must see the stars as moved in “harmonic” circles by divine nous. By following the motions of the stars in the revolutions of his own nous, the philosopher “unites” with divinity. As Plato puts it: God devised and bestowed upon us vision (opsis) in order that we might behold the revolutions of nous in the heavens and use them for the revolving of reasoning that is within us, since our [noetic revolutions] are akin to those divine [noetic revolutions], the unsteady to the steady; and in order that, by learning and sharing in calculations that are correct by nature, and imitating the unwandering revolutions of the god, we might set in order those that are wandering in us.42 (47b–c)

Here, Plato suggests that humans should view the heavens in order to see the motion of divine nous in the stars and to “imitate” this divine motion by the right use of their reason. Human nous (like divine nous) “revolves” in a circle, but it moves in a less than perfect way (it is “unsteady” whereas divine nous

41 Ti. 90c–d: τῷ δ᾽ ἐν ἡμῖν θείῳ συγγενεῖς εἰσιν κινήσεις αἱ τοῦ παντὸς διανοήσεις καὶ περιφοραί: ταύταις δὴ συνεπόμενον ἕκαστον δεῖ, τὰς περὶ τὴν γένεσιν ἐν τῇ κεφαλῇ διεφθαρμένας ἡμῶν περιόδους ἐξορθοῦντα διὰ τὸ καταμανθάνειν τὰς τοῦ παντὸς ἁρμονίας τε καὶ περιφοράς, τῷ κατανοουμένῳ τὸ κατανοοῦν ἐξομοιῶσαι κατὰ τὴν ἀρχαίαν φύσιν. 42 Ti. 47b–c: θεὸν ἡμῖν ἀνευρεῖν δωρήσασθαί τε ὄψιν, ἵνα τὰς ἐν οὐρανῷ τοῦ νοῦ κατιδόντες περιόδους χρησαίμεθα ἐπὶ τὰς περιφορὰς τὰς τῆς παρ᾽ ἡμῖν διανοήσεως, συγγενεῖς ἐκείναις οὔσας, ἀταράκτοις τεταραγμένας, ἐκμαθόντες δὲ καὶ λογισμῶν κατὰ φύσιν ὀρθότητος μετασχόντες, μιμούμενοι τὰς τοῦ θεοῦ πάντως ἀπλανεῖς οὔσας, τὰς ἐν ἡμῖν πεπλανημένας καταστησαίμεθα.

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is “steady”). By viewing and imitating the revolutions of divine nous in the heavens, the philosopher makes his nous more perfect. As I have suggested, the philosopher sees in the stars a harmonious dance performed by the World-Soul. Thus, when he beholds the beautiful dance of the stars, he is able to “unite” with the gods. In this way, the philosopher resembles the spectators of dance performances at religious festivals. For, in both cases, the spectator “unites” with the gods as he views the dance. We must note, however, that Plato’s “good” and “rational” gods are very different from the traditional Greek gods. And, in order to unite with the gods when he sees the heavens, the philosopher must first do an enormous amount of intellectual leg-work. Thus, Plato borrows certain aspects of dance performances at religious festivals but deviates from this model in important ways. Let us turn now to the philosopher’s aesthetic response to the beautiful vision of the stars. Clearly the philosopher uses both his sight and his mind in viewing this spectacle. Indeed, he can only see this beauty rightly if he has mastered philosophic arguments that “prove” that divine intelligence moves the stars in perfect circles. The philosopher’s vision of the stars, then, must be accompanied by a complex set of arguments and ideas if he is to rightly appreciate the beauty of the stars. Not surprisingly, his aesthetic pleasure differs from that of a person viewing choral dances at religious festivals. In watching circular choral dances at religious festivals, the spectators experience pleasure by attending to the dancers’ movements, the musical melodies, and the words of the song. Indeed, the poetic discourse – with its narratives, metaphors, and images – evokes an imaginative response that adds meaning to the visual and aural spectacle. In her discussion of the aesthetic response to choric dance performances, Peponi emphasizes the complex combination of visual, aural, cognitive, and imaginative responses to the dance performance.43 As she suggests, this aesthetic response is achieved by “blending what is supposed to be visible with what is invisible but subject to visualization by the engaged imagination. Vision and visualization are indeed superimposed.”44 By “visualization”, Peponi refers to the creative mental process by which the spectators variously interpret the words of the choral song even as they hear the music and see the dancers’ movements. As she shows, the spectators at dance performances simultaneously respond to the melodies, the dance movements, and the poetic discourse. They thus have a complex aesthetic pleasure that combines judgment, interpretation, and imagination with emotional and somatic responses. As Peponi argues, the spectators’ cognition is ongoingly

43 Peponi 2015. 44 Peponi 2015, 214.

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challenged: as they revel in the visual beauty of the dance, they also judge, interpret, and imaginatively “visualize” the event. Since the poetic words and dance movements keep on changing and referring to different things, the spectator forms and responds to a rapid flow of meanings.45 Let us compare this to the philosophic perception of the star-dance. In seeing the shining lights and the harmonious motions of the stars, the philosophic spectator experiences intense aesthetic pleasure. However, he has a very different aesthetic response than the spectator who watches a choral dance. First, the “dance of the stars” is not accompanied by music and song. Indeed, Plato would have attacked most of the melodies and the songs in choral dances. Of course, the philosopher’s vision of the heavens will be accompanied by words, but these are in prose and take the form of arguments (dealing with astronomy, ontology, epistemology, and psychology). In fact, if the philosopher is to view the heavens with the maximum amount of enjoyement, he must have already mastered these arguments before he looks at the stars: knowing the arguments and proofs precedes the viewing.46 Also – and this is a key point – the traditional Greek dance with its poetic songs referred to many referents and generated a rapid flow of different meanings, whereas a “true” philosophical discourse that accompanies the philosopher’s view of the stardance has a unified meaning. Indeed, according to this philosophic discourse, the stars in the heavens have one clear referent: the World-Soul that moves them as it contemplates the Forms. Plato’s “dance of the stars” thus differs from the Greek dances and their kalaidoscopic conjuration of multiple referents. In sum, in his account of the philosophic spectator viewing the dance of the stars in the Timaeus, Plato sets forth an aesthetics that is at once simple and extravagant. It is extravagant because the philosopher sees thousands of stars and planets moving into countless different positions in relation to one another as time passes. It is simple because the philosopher finds a unified meaning in the multiple motions and variegation of the phenomena.47 In short, the philosopher’s aesthetic pleasure combines the “vision” of countless shiny

45 Peponi 2015. 46 To be sure, the philosopher who is working to perfect his astronomical and philosophical understanding will still enjoy the beauty of the stars: the aesthetic pleasure moves along a spectrum as the philosopher moves towards greater understanding. 47 Note that I differentiate the “austere” aesthetics in the Philebus from the “simple” aesthetic response in the Timaeus. In the former dialogue, the viewer focuses on a small number of geometrically shaped artifacts or a pure color (isolated from its phenomenological context); in the latter, the philosophic spectator looks at an entire region as it changes over time while seeing with his mind’s eye the “simple” circular motions of the stars and the divine nous that moves the stars.

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stars moving in the heavens and the philosophic “visualization” of the stars moving in circles that reflect the motion of a divine noetic soul.48

Bibliography Annas, J. (1982), “Plato’s Myths of Judgement”, in: Phronesis 27, 199–243. Brague, R. (1999), La Sagesse du Monde: Histoire de l’Expérience Humaine de l’Universe, Paris. Brecoulaki, H.(2015), “Greek Painting and the Challenge of Mimêsis,” in: Destrée / Murray (2015), 218–236. Brill, S. (2009), “The Geography of Finitude: Myth and Earth in Plato’s Phaedo”, in: International Philosophical Quarterly 49, 5–23. Broadie, S. (2012), Nature and Divinity in Plato’s Timaeus, Cambridge. Cornford, F. (1956), Plato’s Cosmology repr., London. Csapo, E. (2008) “Star Choruses: Eleusis, Orphism, and New Musical Imagery and Dance”, in: M. Revermann / P. Wilson (eds.), Performance, Iconography, Reception: Studies in Honour of Oliver Taplin, Oxford, 262–290. Destrée, P. / P. Murray (eds.) (2015), A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, Oxford. Destrée, P. (2015), “Pleasure”, in: Destrée / Murray (2015), 472–485. Dicks, D. R. (1970), Early Greek Astronomy to Aristotle, Ithaca. Elsner, J. (2000), “Between Mimesis and Divine Power: Visuality in the Greco-Roman World”, in: R. Nelson (ed.), Visuality Before and beyond the Renaissance: Seeing as Others Saw, Cambridge, 45–69. Frede, D. (1985), “Rumpelstiltskin’s Pleasures: True and False Pleasures in Plato’s Philebus”, in: Phronesis 30, 151–180. Grand-Clément, A. (2015), “Poikilia”, in: Destrée / Murray (2015), 406–421. Hackforth, R. (1972), Plato’s Phaedo, Cambridge. Halliwell, S. (2000), “Plato on Painting”, in: K. Rutter / B. Sparkes (eds.) Word and Image in Ancient Greece, Edinburgh, 99–118. Irwin, E. (1974), Colour Terms in Greek Poetry, Toronto. Kurke, L. (2012), “The Value of Chorality in Ancient Greece”, in: J. Papadopoulos / G. Urton (eds.), The Construction of Value in the Ancient World, Los Angeles, 218–235. Lee, E. N. (1976), “Reason and Rotation: Circular Movement as the Model of Mind (Nous) in later Plato”, in: W. Werkmeister (ed.), Facets of Plato’s Philosophy, in: Phronesis Supplementary Volume 2, 70–102. Liebert, R. S. (2010), “Apian Imagery and the Critique of Poetic Sweetness in Plato’s Republic”, in: TAPA 140, 97–115. Lloyd, G. E. R. (1979), Magic, Reason, and Experience: Studies in the Origins and Development of Early Greek Science, Cambridge.

48 I am grateful to my graduate student John Tennant, whose work on “taste” and “adornment” has informed my ideas. I am also thankful to my student Ava Shirazi for helping me in researching and writing this essay. I owe my colleague Natasha Peponi a great debt for helping me with my ideas about aesthetics over the last five years.

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Lloyd, G. E. R. (1987), The Revolutions of Wisdom: Studies in the Claims and Practice of Ancient Greek Science, Cambridge. Mohr, R. D. (1985), The Platonic Cosmology, Leiden. Morgan, K. (2000), Myth and Philosophy from the Presocratics to Plato. Cambridge. Mourelatos, A. (1981), “Astronomy and Kinematics in Plato’s Project of Rationalist Explanation”, in: Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science 12, 1–21. Mueller, I. (1992), “Mathematical Knowledge and Philosophical Truth”, in: R. Kraut (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plato, Cambridge, 170–199. Nightingale, A. (2001), “Towards an Ecological Eschatology: Plato and Bakhtin on Other Worlds and Times”, in: B. Branham (ed.) Bakhtin and the Classics, Evanston, 221–249. Nightingale, A. (2004), Spectacles of Truth in Classical Greek Philosophy: Theoria in its Cultural Context, Cambridge. Nightingale, A. (2015), “Sight and the Philosophy of Vision in Classical Greece: Democritus, Plato and Aristotle,” in: M. Squire (ed.), Sight and the Ancient Senses, London, 54–67. O’Meara, D. (forthcoming), Festivals of Life: Cosmology and Politics in Plato’s Later Works. Peponi, N. (2004), “Initiating the Viewer: Deixis and Perception in Alcman’s Lyric Drama”, in: Arethusa 37, 295–316. Peponi, N. (2012), Frontiers of Pleasure: Models of Aesthetic Response in Archaic and Classical Greek Thought, New York. Peponi, N. (2015), “Dance and Aesthetic Perception”, in: Destrée / Murray (2015), 204–217. Porter, J. (2010), The Origins of Aesthetic Thought in Ancient Greece, Cambridge. Rowe, C. (1991), “Philosophy and Literature: The Arguments of Plato’s Phaedo”, in: Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 7, 159–181. Rowe, C. (1993), Plato: Phaedo, Cambridge. Sassi, M. (2015), “Perceiving Colors”, in: Destrée / Murray (2015), 262–273. Sedley, D. (1989), “Teleology and Myth in the Phaedo”, in: Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 5, 359–383. Sedley, D. (2009), Creation and its Critics in Antiquity, Berkeley. Steiner, D. (2014), “Greek and Roman Theories of Art”, in: C. Marconi (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Architecture, Oxford, 21–40. Taylor, A. E. (1928), A Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, Oxford. Vlastos, G. (1971), “Reasons and Causes in the Phaedo”, in: G. Vlastos (ed.), Plato: A Collection of Critical Essays vol. 1: Metaphysics and Epistemology, New York, ch. 7. Vlastos, G. (1975), Plato’s Universe, Seattle. Vlastos, G. (1980), “The Role of Observation in Plato’s Conception of Astronomy”, in: J. Anton (ed.), Science and the Sciences in Plato, New York, 1–31.

Michael Squire

A Picture of Ecphrasis: The Younger Philostratus and the Homeric Shield of Achilles “Viewing”, ancient thinkers are at pains to remind us, need not necessarily involve a physical, visual stimulus. In Greek and Latin, as in numerous other IndoEuropean languages, the sense of sight is bound up with a larger nexus of ideas about perception, imagination and cognition: “seeing” went hand in hand with “knowing”, just as “sight” could betoken “insight” (and vice versa).1 It followed that “viewing” could be connected with different sorts of sensory experience, not least that of responding to spoken or written language. Although made up of words rather than pictures, texts could be understood as bringing about “vision” in their own written right: whether one considers Simonides’ celebrated analogy between art and imagery (“a painting is a silent poem, and a poem a talking painting”),2 or Horace’s famous prescription of ut pictura poesis (“as a picture, so is poetry”),3 Greek and Roman writers saw a fundamental parallel between “viewing” images on the one hand, and “reading” or “hearing” words on the other. As so often, it was Homer who served as a paradigmatic exemplar for such thinking. What is so special about Homeric poetry, ancient critics insisted, is its capacity to paint metaphorical images: thanks to the so-called enargeia (visual “vividness”) of the poet’s descriptions,4 Homeric events are not only heard, but 1 For an introduction to the themes (and further bibliography), see the essays in Squire 2016b, esp. Squire 2016a, 12–15; particularly important is Simon 1988. 2 For the phrase, see Plut. Mor. [De glor. Ath.] 346f (= fr. 190b Bergk: πλὴν ὁ Σιμωνίδης τὴν μὲν ζωγραφίαν ποίησιν σιωπῶσαν προσαγορεύει, τὴν δὲ ποίησιν ζωγραφίαν λαλοῦσαν): pertinent discussions include Sprigath 2004 and Männlein-Robert 2007, 20–22. On the close association of the aphorism with the Homeric shield of Achilles, cf. and Lecoq 2010, 79, Iribarren 2012 and Squire 2013a, 161–162. 3 Hor. Ars P. 361–5; cf. Brink 1971, 368–372 and Hardie 1993b. On the ancient analogy, and its Renaissance reception, see the stimulating analysis of Barkan 2013 (with guide to the substantial bibliography). 4 For the Aristotelian definition of enargeia as a “bringing before the eyes” (πρὸ ὀμμάτων ποιεῖν), see Arist. Rhet. 1386a, along with Poet. 1455a (for the association with tragic poetry); other Aristotelian discussions are collected at Rispoli 1984, 311 n. 1. For discussions, see Zanker 1981, Zangara 2007, esp. 233–277, Otto 2009, Webb 2009, 87–130, Plett 2012 and Sheppard 2014, 19–46; cf. Lausberg 1998, 359–66, nos. 810–819 (collecting rhetorical sources on evidentia). Specifically on the enargeia of Homeric poetry (above all with a view to the ancient scholastic tradition), see Richardson 1980, esp. 278–279, Rispoli 1984; Meijering 1987, 14–18, 29–52; Mahttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-020

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also “seen”.5 So skilled was Homer in producing novel effects, writes Dionysius of Halicarnassus, that he appeals directly to our eyes: we see the events as clearly when they are described to us as if they were actually happening (ὥστε μηδὲν ἡμῖν διαφέρειν γινόμενα τὰ πράγματα ἢ λεγόμενα ὁρᾶν, Comp. 20). Despite Homer’s blindness,6 to quote Cicero, we seem actually to view his work – not as poetry, but as painting (at eius picturam, non poësim uidemus: Tusc. 5.114).7 “Graphic” would be one way of describing the Homeric quality that Dionysius and Cicero identify. It is a term that ancient thinkers in one sense anticipated, playing on the dual semantic register of the Greek verb (graphein) – a word that refers to the acts of “writing” and “drawing” alike.8 Of course, “Homer” likely never “wrote” in any literal sense, nor of course did he “draw” or “paint”: the Homeric poems were destined for oral delivery. And yet, in the words of Lucian, Homer could be deemed ὁ ἄριστος τῶν γραφέων – at once “the best of writers” and the “best of painters” (Imag. 8).9 Still more explicit is the following passage from an anonymous second-century treatise on the Life of Homer, formerly attributed to Plutarch (Vit. Hom. 216):10

nieri 1998, esp. 179–192 (on the extant scholia); Nünlist 2009, 153–155, 194–198; Squire and Elsner 2017, esp. 60–61, 68–69. 5 For one example of the trope in the scholiastic tradition, see Schol. bT ad Il. 6.467 (= Erbse 1969–1988, 2.210): the Homeric description of the baby Astyanax, frightened by the plumed helmet of his father Hector, is so full of enargeia, we are told, since “the events are not only heard, but also seen” (ταῦτα δὲ τὰ ἔπη οὕτως ἐστὶν ἐναργείας μεστά, ὅτι οὐ μόνον ἀκούεται τὰ πράγματα, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὁρᾶται). Rispoli 1984 discusses numerous other examples; cf. Meijering 1987, esp. 29–52; Manieri 1998, esp. 179–192; Nünlist 2009, 153–155, 194–198. On “the gaze, vision, and visuality” in Homeric poetry, cf. the chapters in this volume by Françoise Létoublon, Jonas Grethlein and Claudia Michel; the key work remains Prier 1989. 6 On Homer’s blindness, see Graziosi 2002, 125–163 – along with Coo 2016 on the topos of blindness in Greek literature more generally (with survey bibliography). 7 Homer has depicted all manner of subjects, Cicero continues, and in such a way as to make us see the things that he himself has not seen (non ita expictus est, ut quae ipse non uiderit, nos ut uideremus effecerit). For the ancient literary critical topos, see the excellent overview of Zeitlin 2001; cf. Hillgruber 1994–99, 1.1–35, Lecoq 2010, 65–87 and Squire 2011, 337–355. 8 For the wordplay, see especially Lissarrague 1992 and Jouanna 2001; cf. below, pp. 397–398. 9 For discussion, see most recently Pigeaud 2013, 161–163. On the passage, see also Zeitlin 2001, 224–232: Zeitlin turns to Lucian, among other authors, to show how Homer, “as verbal artist, authority on the gods, and respository of traditional themes and images”, held a special place “in the context of expanding visual culture that is the hallmark of the post-classical era” – “which includes not just the arts themselves but also other modes of ‘seeing’ in a range of encounters with the past” (205). Compare e.g. Max. Tyr. 26.5 – on how painters like Polygnotus and Zeuxis have learned their technē from Homer. 10 I adapt my translation from Keaney and Lamberton 1996, 306–309; for discussion, see Hillgruber 1994–1999, 2.435–38 ad loc., along with Rispoli 1985, 99–100, Zeitlin 2001, 223–224 and Iribarren 2012, 297–299.

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Εἰ δὲ καὶ ζῳγραφίας διδάσκαλον Ὅμηρον φαίη τις, οὐκ ἂν ἁμαρτάνοι. καὶ γὰρ εἶπέ τις τῶν σοφῶν ὅτι ἐστὶν ἡ ποιητικὴ ζῳγραφία λαλοῦσα, ἡ δὲ ζῳγραφία ποιητικὴ σιωπῶσα. τίς οὖν πρῶτος ἢ τίς μᾶλλον Ὁμήρου τῇ φαντασίᾳ τῶν νοημάτων ἔδειξεν ἢ τῇ εὐφωνίᾳ τῶν ἐπῶν ἐκόσμησε θεούς, ἀνθρώπους, τόπους, πράξεις ποικίλας; ἀνέπλασε δὲ τῇ ὕλῃ τῶν λόγων καὶ ζῷα παντοῖα, καὶ μάλιστα τὰ ἀλκιμώτατα, λέοντας, σύας, παρδάλεις. ὧν τὰς μορφὰς καὶ διαθέσεις ὑπογράψας καὶ ἀνθρωπείοις πράγμασι παραβαλὼν ἔδειξεν ἑκατέρας τὰς οἰκειότητας. ἐτόλμησε δὲ καὶ θεοῖς μορφὰς ἀνθρώπων εἰκάσαι. ὁ δὲ τὴν ἀσπίδα τῷ Ἀχιλλεῖ κατασκευάσας Ἥφαιστος καὶ ἐντορεύσας τῷ χρυσῷ γῆν, οὐρανόν, θάλασσαν, ἔτι δὲ μέγεθος ἡλίου καὶ κάλλος σελήνης καὶ πλῆθος ἄστρων στεφανούντων τὸ πᾶν καὶ πόλεις ἐν διαφόροις τρόποις καὶ τύχαις καθεστώσας καὶ ζῷα κινούμενα καὶ φθεγγόμενα, τίνος οὐ φαίνεται τέχνης τοιαύτης δημιουργοῦ τεχνικώτερος; If one were to say that Homer was also a teacher of painting, this would be no exaggeration, for as one of the sages said, “poetry is painting which speaks and painting is silent poetry”. Who before, or who better than Homer, displayed for the imagination [phantasia] of our thoughts, men, places and various deeds, or ornamented them with the euphony of words? He sculpted in the medium of language all kinds of beasts and in particular the most powerful – lions, boars, leopards; by describing their forms and dispositions and drawing on human matters for comparison, he demonstrated the special properties of each. He dared also to give the gods human shape. But Homer’s Hephaestus, making the shield of Achilles and sculpting in gold the earth, the heavens, the sea, even the mass of the sun and the beauty of the moon, the swarm of stars that crowns the universe, cities of various sorts and fortunes, and moving, speaking creatures – what creator [dēmiourgos] of such art [technē] does he not seem to excel in his art?11

Just as Homer is declared to be a teacher of “painting” (ζῳγραφι ́ας διδάσκαλος), the images summoned up through Homeric poetry are said to appeal to the “mind’s eye” – “to the imagination of our thoughts” (τῇ φαντασίᾳ τῶν νοημάτων).12 There is no question about the aural sensory medium (hence the talk, for example, of Homer’s “euphony of words”, εὐφωνία τῶν ἐπῶν). Yet the wordsmith “crafts” through the almost physical stuff of language: like a sculptor – indeed like the god Hephaestus himself – Homer forges things in the medium of words (ἀνέπλασε δὲ τῇ ὕλῃ τῶν λόγων); his artful products can

11 For the underlying pun on technē – so that Homer outdoes even Hephaestus in his skill [technikōteros] – see below pp. 397–398: as Kean Keaney and Lamberton 1996, 27 put it, “the creator of Hephaestus and the shield is assimilated to his creation and the global and comprehensive artifact of Hephaestus becomes, implicitly, the Homeric corpus”; cf. Zeitlin 2001, 224 (“In ps.-Plutarch’s account … Hephaestus’ manufacture of the shield is transferred to the poet himself as proof that the product of his phantasia entitles him to the highest credentials of excellence in the visual arts themselves”). 12 On the significance of the word phantasia, see below, p. 400.

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Fig. 16.1: Wall painting from the Domus Uboni (Pompeii, IX.5.2). Image reproduced by kind permission of the Institut für Klassische Archäologie und Museum für Abgüsse Klassischer Bildwerke, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich.

consequently be likened to “things that we seem more to see than to hear” (ὅτι ὁρωμένοις μᾶλλον ἢ ἀκουομένοις ἔοικε τὰ ποιήματα, Vit. Hom. 217).13

13 The phrasing here – and in the following soundbites – is of course indebted to rhetorical thinking about ecphrasis (as something that brings about “seeing” through “hearing”): see below, pp. 372–375.

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Fig. 16.2: Wall painting from the Casa di Paccius Alexander (Pompeii, IX.1.7 = Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 110338). Image credit: by M. J. Squire.

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Fig. 16.3: Carnelian gem of Thetis and Hephaestus crafting the shield of Achilles, mid-first century BC (Wien, Kunsthistorisches Museum, inv. ANSA IX b 679; height 12 mm; width 9.2 mm; depth 2.6 mm). © Kunsthistorisches Museum, inv. ANSA IX b 679.

To demonstrate the point, the Life of Homer proceeds to introduce a specific example. After all, we need only “look” (ἴδωμεν) to the scene of Eurycleia recognizing the scar of Odysseus (Od. 19.467–477):14 ἐνταῦθα γὰρ, ὡς ἐν πίνακι γραπτῷ δεδειγμένων τῶν ὑπὸ τὸν ὀφθαλμὸν πεσεῖν δυναμένων, ἐμφαίνεται πλείω τὰ μηδὲ τῇ ὄψει ἔτι καταληπτὰ ἀλλὰ τῇ νοήσει μόνῃ … For here, while everything that can be displayed to the eye is shown as in a painted panel, there is still more – things that cannot be grasped by sight, but only by the mind …

14 The same scene gave rise to one of the most influential modern discussions of “the genius of the Homeric style” (7): Auerbach 1953: 3–23 (first published in 1946); cf. also Grethlein’s chapter in this volume.

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Fig. 16.4: Obverse of Tabula Iliaca 4N (= Rome, Musei Capitolini, Sala delle Colombe, inv. 83a). Image credit: M. J. Squire, reproduced with the kind permission of the Direzione, Musei Capitolini, Rome.

While Homer’s mode of “showing” events is once again compared with a painting, the Odyssean passage is said to outstrip the visual arts altogether, appealing as it does to the mind as well as to the eye. Such is the “graphic” manner (γραφικῶς) with which Homer depicts events, we are told, that his poetry sur-

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Fig. 16.5: Plaster cast of Tabula Iliaca 4N, held in the hand of the author (= Göttingen, Archäologisches Institut und Sammlung der Gipsabgüsse, inv. A1695). Image credit: M. J. Squire.

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passes what could be shown in a panel-painting (ἐν πίνακι γραπτῷ), as “can be seen by the act of reading itself” (ἅπερ ἐν αὐτῇ ἀναγνώσει θεάσασθαι ἔνεστιν). With an eye to the book’s themes of “the gaze, vision, and visuality in ancient Greek literature”, this chapter sets out to revisit the underlying idea of “viewing” Homeric poetry. In particular, it turns to Homer’s most famous feat of poetic visualization (as introduced in the Life of Homer soundbite above): the Homeric description of the shield of Achilles, crafted by Hephaestus in the eighteenth book of the Iliad (Il. 18.478–608). Among ancient critics, this passage was lauded as a supreme example of set-piece literary description, evoking something made visible Homer’s artful poetic evocation; no less importantly, the passage was also associated with what later rhetoricians came to label “ecphrasis”.15 As audiences read (or perhaps better hear) the description of the shield, forged over some 130 lines, they gain a marvellous impression of the wondrous object that Hephaestus in turn crafts for Achilles. At the same time, however, access to that object is mediated through the lens of Homeric verse. Despite its verbal fabric, the whole description is founded on the promise or potential of sight: the shield is crafted, as Homer has Hephaestus himself explain, “such that anyone among the multitude of men will marvel, whoever looks upon it” (οἷά τις αὖτε | ἀνθρώπων πολέων θαυμάσσεται, ὅς κεν ἴδηται, Il. 18.466–467). Now, the Homeric shield of Achilles has attracted a substantial bibliography in recent years.16 It also spurred all manner of literary imitations and responses in antiquity. Already in the sixth century BC, Homer’s underlying interest in sight and sound was taken up by the poet’s immediate successors, not least in the Pseudo-Hesiodic poem on the Shield of Heracles.17 Later epic (as indeed other)

15 The rhetorical trope of ecphrasis has spurred a whole scholarly industry in recent years: for my own attempt to survey the field, see Squire 2015; cf. e.g. Elsner 2002 and Zeitlin 2013, along with below, pp. 372–375. For a stimulating “débat” about scholarship on ancient visualverbal relations, complete with useful bibliographic review, see also Muth, Neer, Rouveret and Webb 2012. 16 For a basic guide, see the references collected in Squire 2013a, 183 n. 1: among the most important analyses, in my view, are Heffernan 1993, 10–22, Becker 1995, Francis 2009, esp. 8– 13, Lecoq 2010, de Jong 2011 and Cullhed 2014; I have also learned from the forthcoming work of Karel Thein, who is preparing a book on the ecphrastic shield descriptions of ancient literature. In previous discussions of the passage (esp. Squire 2013a), I have pointed to the ways in which Homer’s games with sight and sound helped establish a critical framework for approaching the respective workings of visual and verbal media: cf. also e.g. Becker 1995 and Francis 2009. 17 The Shield of Heracles self-consciously transformed the Homeric “wonder to behold” (θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι) into a “great wonder to be told” (θαῦμα μέγα φράσσασθ᾽, [Sc.] 218): cf. Becker 1995, 23–40 – along with the excellent commentary of Chiarini 2012.

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Fig. 16.6: Photograph of the inscribed text around the obverse rim of Tabula Iliaca 4N (as reproduced in the same Götttingen plaster cast). The first three columns of text can be seen here (from an original total of ten): Il. 18.483–492 (left), vv. 493–504 (second from left) and vv. 505–519 (third from left); a fourth column, to the right (on the damaged part of the rim) was inscribed with vv. 533–545. Image credit: Stefan Eckardt, reproduced with kind permission.

poets similarly turned to the Homeric model to forge revisionist recreations of their own – from Apollonius’ celebrated description of the “cloak of Jason” (Arg. 1.730–767), to Virgil’s famous evocation of the shield of Aeneas (Aen. 8.267– 731).18 Alongside this long literary afterlife, the passage also attracted attention from ancient artists, who delighted in the challenge of transforming Homer’s literary creation back into a crafted object for physical inspection.19 With six Pompeian frescoes that depict Thetis at the forge of Hephaestus, we find painters

18 For one attempt at listing ancient literary imitations of the shield, cf. Fittschen 1973, 1 n. 1. Cf. Squire 2011, 325–349 (with more detailed bibliography), and the discursive treatment of Lovatt 2013, 162–204. 19 Cf. Squire 2013a, 165–179 (with references), along with Amedick 1999. On more modern traditions of reconstructing the shield – both among Neoclassical artists and classical archaeologists – see e.g. Lecoq 2010, esp. 117–237, Squire 2011, 344–347, and Iribarren 2012, esp. 303– 308.

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turning the shield into a literal artistic centre-piece – whether visualizing its scenes as barely determinable squiggles (the subject, it seems, of an oral explication within the picture) [Fig. 16.1], or else rendering it as something that confronts Thetis with her own self-reflected view [Fig. 16.2].20 Occasionally, we find the subject in other media too – as on a miniature Carnelian intaglio, portraying Hephaestus and Thetis either side of the central shield, which itself mirrors the rounded form of the gem that circumscribes the scene [Fig. 16.3]. Perhaps most “wondrous” of all are two early Imperial Tabulae Iliacae, housed in the Musei Capitoloni, which give literal form to the literary vignettes of the Homeric description, thereby making materially manifest the marvellous make-believe of the description. In the best surviving example, Homer’s “great and mighty shield” is shrunk to a miniature object just 17.8 cm in diameter [Fig. 16.4–5]:21 despite its diminutive size, the outer rim of the tablet provides a text of the entire span of the Homeric passage, written in letters of under 1 millimetre in height – just about “visible”, in other words, but barely “lisible” [Fig. 16.6].22

20 For discussions, see Brendel 1980, 74–80; Hardie 1985, 18–20; Gury 1986; Balensiefen 1989, 56–59; Hodske 2007, 216–218; Squire 2013a, 169–170. Heslin 2015, 161–165 argues that “one way of thinking about” each “humble domestic painting” is as “a domestic visual quotation of part of a public visual cycle in Pompeii that imitated a fictional ecphrasis in Virgil’s Aeneid that was inspired by a visual monument in Rome in which there was a cycle of Hellenistic paintings that illustrated the text of Homer’s Iliad, which itself contained an ecphrasis of the shield” (322): the argument is unconvincing, in my view (cf. Squire 2016c). 21 The extant tablet weighs 1.29 kg – the original weight cannot have been more than 2 kg. As such, the viewer’s ease in lifting this “stone” might remind of Diomedes’ own famous feat of lifting a rock “that two men, such as mortals now are, could bear” (Il. 5.302–304). 22 For a more detailed discussion of the two tablets (Rome: Musei Capitolini, Sala delle Colombe inv. 83a and 83b), see Squire 2011, 303–370; one might also compare a third “Iliac tablet” (today known only from a nineteenth-century drawing by Emiliano Sartis: the so-called Tabula Sarti, labelled 6B), which seems to have included at its upper centre Thetis holding a version of the shield (cf. Squire 2011, 357–358, 396–397, with more detailed references). I have attempted a transcription of the text around tablet 4N – which provides our earliest extant text of Il. 18.483–557 – in Squire 2012. Objects like these give good cause for challenging Jocelyn Penny Small’s argument that “the dominant pattern [of art and text relations in antiquity] is one of artists and writers pursuing independent and parallel worlds with only occasional intersections” (Small 2003, 175). Small herself briefly discusses ancient images of the Homeric shield (Small 2003, 27–28); she likewise cites “two fragments of Iliac tablets from the second century A.D. [sic]”, including one that purportedly “survives in a 19th-century drawing”. Quite apart from the miscounting and incorrect dating of the material, Small’s conclusion that “in neither case is the preservation sufficient to be able to tell how closely the artist adhered to the text” (2003, 184 n. 65) baffles, not least given the (overlooked) elaborate inscription of Homeric text; as I have argued at greater length elsewhere, Small’s conclusion that this collection of tablets “reaffirms that artists and writers often went their own and different ways” (2003, 93) simply cannot stand.

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I have written about these and other responses to the Homeric passage elsewhere. My aim in the present chapter is rather different. Although my subject once again lies in “viewing” the shield of Achilles, I here turn to just one literary engagement, dating from the early fourth century AD. My case study is drawn from the Imagines of the Younger Philostratus, a work that sets out to describe a purported gallery of paintings; more specifically, I explore a single tableau from the Imagines, centred around a literary description of a purported painting drawn after the Homeric evocation of the shield crafted by Hephaestus.23 That knowing recession of representational registers – from text to image to text (and back again) – will prove fundamental to my argument. As we have said, ancient critics made much of the “painterly” qualities of Homeric ecphrasis, and commentators talked about the shield-description in particular as being “like a painting”.24 But the Imagines at once plays out and literalizes the analogy: if Philostratus transforms the verbal description into a imaginary painting, he simultaneously refracts that image through the medium of a spoken address acted out in front of the purported picture. The intellectual brilliance of this move lies in the questions Philostratus stages about words as images and images at words: the Imagines turns to Homeric precedent in order to interrogate what it means to view a picture, no less than the hermeneutics of seeing through reading.

Introducing the Younger Philostratus Before turning to my particular passage, let me begin by saying something about the Younger Philostratus. As we have said, the Imagines seems to have 23 For some preliminary comments, see Squire 2011, 311–313 and 2013a, 164–165. 24 So it is, for example, that a scholion on Il. 18.561–562 declares that Homer “shows the vineyards that are laden with grape-clusters just as in a painting [graphē]” (ὡς ἐν γραφῇ κατακλωμένας βότρυσι δείκνυσι τὰς ἀμπέλους): he has himself painted/described [egrapse] everything perfectly (πάντα τελαῖα ἔγραψε), the scholiast continues, so that the creator [dēmiourgos] should be praised for the exceedingly beautiful manner of his impressed image of the present things impressed onto the shield (ἵνα περικαλλῆ τὴν φαντασίαν τῶν ἐντετυπωμένων παρεχόντων ὁ δημιουργὸς ἐπαινεθείη: Schol. bT ad Il. 18.561 = Erbse 1969–1988, 4.554; for discussion, cf. Rispoli 1984, 332). Compare also Eustathius ad Il. 18.607 (= van der Valk 1971–1987, 4.272), commenting on Homer’s ring-compositional “panel”-framing of the whole description: “[The verse is] clearly imitating the manner of a panel-painting/ description [pinakographikōi] – which the descriptive authors emulated – because Homer put the Ocean around his making of the cosmos in circular formation” (δῆλον δὲ ὡς πάνυ δεξιῶς πινακογραφικῷ χαρακτῆρι, ὃν οἱ περιηγούμενοι ἐζήλωσαν, τῇ κατ’ αὐτὸν Ὅμηρος κοσμοποιΐᾳ κύκλῳ τὸν Ὠκεανὸν περιέθετο).

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been written in the early fourth century:25 in its extant form, it consists of seventeen descriptions of paintings, each composed as speeches addressed to an imagined bystander.26 It is the only surviving work by the Younger Philostratus, and our main evidence about the writer comes from the proem of the Imagines itself. At the beginning of a short preface to the work, the author relates his text to a similar project by his purported grandfather (Praef. 2):27 ἐσπούδασταί τις γραφικῆς ἔργων ἔκφρασις τὠμῷ ὁμωνύμῳ τε καὶ μητροπάτορι λίαν Ἀττικῶς τῆς γλώττης ἔχουσα ξὺν ὥρᾳ τε προηγμένῃ καὶ τόνῳ. A certain ecphrasis of works of painting/description [graphikēs] was produced by a man who bears my name – my grandfather on my mother’s side – in very pure Greek and with extreme beauty and pitch.

The text before us, we are told, is an imitation of an earlier work: this “Younger Philostratus” sets out to emulate the Imagines of the “Elder Philostratus”, a

25 As I have argued elsewhere, the early fourth century AD was a time of intense new experimentation with visual-verbal relations, as played out in all manner of literary/artistic scenarios: among the most sophisticated materials, in my view, are the picture-poems of Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius (cf. Squire 2017 and the chapters in Squire and Wienand 2017); indeed, it is worth noting that Optatian’s seventh poem appears to summon up the schematic outline of a shield within its carmen cancellatum form. 26 The author explains the narrative device at the end of his proem (Praef. 7), subtly varying the frame of the Elder Philodstratus (Phil. Mai. Im. Praef. 4–5): the Younger Philostratus summons up an internal audience – to whom it is necessary to explain things point by point (ἔστω τις ὑποκείμενος, πρὸς ὃν χρὴ τὰ καθ᾽ ἕκαστα διαρθροῦν) – “in order that the writing/drawing [gramma] might not proceed on one foot” (ἵν᾽ ἡμῖν μὴ ἐφ᾽ ἑνὸς τὸ γράμμα προίοι), and so that “the speech [logos] may thus have its proper form” (ἵν᾽ οὕτω καὶ ὁ λόγος τὸ ἁρμόττον ἔχοι). For the relationship with the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines here, see e.g. Webb 1992, 27, 65 and Abbondanza 2001, 111–113. There was likely once a greater number of descriptions: the key twelfth- or thirteenth-century manuscript preserving the text (Laurentianus LXVIII 32 (F) fol. 45r–62v), from which other manuscripts derive, breaks off in the middle of the seventeenth description, and also has a lacuna at the end of the first description; on issues of transmission, see Schenkl and Reish 1902, v–xiv, liv–lvii, Webb 1992, 105, 207 and Barbazza 2004. 27 The most detailed discussion of the proem is Pugliara 2004, especially strong on the philosophical backdrop: on the language of ecphrasis, see ibid., 14–15; on the importance of the proem as testimony to “l’originalité des Images” of the Elder Philostratus, see Dubel 2010, 26– 27, along with e.g. Webb 1992, 14, 16–17 (on the significance of the reference to the Elder Philostratus’ tonos, as well as his Attic language). It is worth noting in passing how many of the same Atticisms and linguistic features noted in the context of the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines recur in the work of the later author, including the passage discussed in this chapter (cf. Schmid 1896: 4.11–118 and Webb 1992, 17): these encompass not just orthography, but also fourth-century archaisms – such as dual forms, the optative mood, the placing of adjectives in the predicative position and the use of neuter adjectives as substantives and absolute infinitives.

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work that is explicitly heralded as “an ecphrasis of works of painting/description [graphikēs]” (τις γραφικῆς ἔργων ἔκφρασις). We will return a little later to the significance of that “ecphrastic” title (pp. 372–375).28 For now, though, it is enough to note the programmatic flagging of an earlier literary model. The very proem of the Imagines is framed around precisely the theme of imitating past literary accomplishments: the achievements of one’s predecessors (τῶν παλαιοτέρων), as the proem puts it, should not prevent a modern-day author from imitating earlier works to the best of his ability (ζηλοῦν κατὰ δύναμιν).29 These prefatory comments aside, we know very little about the identity of this Younger Philostratus: the most important testimony comes in the Suda, which ascribes to the author of this second Imagines (Eikones in Greek) a Panathenaikon, a Troikon, a “paraphrase of the Homeric shield” and five exercises in rhetoric (while also noting that some authors have also attributed to him a Lives of the Sophists).30 Classical scholars have thought decidedly little of this “Younger” Philostratus. Although many have paid renewed attention to the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus, especially over the last two decades,31 few have examined the

28 No less important is the pun on graphikē, which introduces a favourite word-play in the Imagines (and one itself derived from the Elder Philostratus’ text): cf. below, pp. 397–398. In this case, the pun is coupled with the author’s talk of “works” (ἔργων), a word which can apply to visual and literary artefacts alike. 29 As we shall see, the sentiment has a particular resonance in the context of the tenth description, centred as it is around a close imitation of Homer. 30 For discussion, see Gallé Cejudo 2001, 14–19, along with Noack-Hilgers 1999, 203–206 (on “die spärlichen biographischen Nachrichten über Philostrat”): I think it likely that the “Paraphrase of the Homeric shield” (Παράφρασιν τῆς Ὁμήρου ἀσπίδος) should be understood as referring to Im. 10. Given the restrictions of space, I must pass over debates about the identity of the different “Philostrati” and their works: see e.g. Anderson 1986, 291–296, Lannoy 1997, Primavesi and Giuliani 2012, 27–36 and Bachmann 2015, 14–21, esp. 18–19 (with references to the earlier bibliography). 31 For surveys of the most recent bibliography, see e.g. Alexandre 2011 and Squire 2013b – to which can now be added e.g. Bachmann 2015 and Squire and Elsner 2017. Not all readers have been convinced of the merits even of the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines, including WilamowitzMoellendorff 1905, 171–172 (who took a dim view of both the Elder and Younger Philostratus, as well as of Callistratus): “Den Kallistratos habe ich … wieder durchgelesen; ich will’s nun aber gewiß nicht wiedertun, denn lohnen kann er’s nur mit dem Spaß, den eine Conjectur macht, zu lernen ist nichts, wie ich freilich wußte, und die ‘Rettung’ dieses Sophisten hat, wie bei den Philostraten, für mich nur den Reiz der pathologischen Erscheinung; so etwas verwindet die Philologie wie ein Kind die Röteln … Der jüngere Philostratos ist immerhin lesenswerter [als Kallistratos], obwohl er auch die Finessen und die Unarten seines Vorbildes nicht recht zu treffen weiß”.

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descriptions of his later namesake.32 Those who have written about this particular work, moreover, have barely concealed their scorn.33 “Cheap” (billig) was how Paul Friedländer described the works of both Callistratus and the Younger Philostratus in 1902, judging them pale “imitators” of the Elder Philostratus (Nachahmer Philostrats).34 Subsequent critics have very much concurred, condemning the “toilsome-ness” (Mühseligkeit) of the Younger Philostratus in particular: compared with the earlier Imagines, the work of the Younger Philostratus has been judged a shoddy and inferior imitation (Machwerk eines imitierenden Epigonen).35 One of my aims in this chapter is to challenge this dismissive rhetoric. To my eyes, the very “secondariness” of the Younger Philostratus’ Imagines only adds to the work’s complexity, and in deeply self-conscious ways. As we shall see, the theme of replication lies at the heart of this text. But just as the Imagines is a work that sets outs to replicate imagined paintings through verbal description, so too does it layer that trope of ecphrastic replication over the literary idea of emulating textual precedent – encompassing the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus, certainly, yet also stretching all the way back to Homer. Once again, the proem teases out the thinking. On the one hand, the Imagines begings by stressing its status as a work that is both painterly and literary at once: in this mise en abyme of representations, we are dealing with descriptive imitations written in response to imagined pictures.36 Such simulations of 32 The most important work is the edited “art-historical” commentary of Ghedini, Colpo and Novello 2004; Amedick 1998 offers a related iconographic discussion of Im. 1. For a review of the Younger Philostratus’ reception in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, see Noack-Hilgers 1999, 203–204, along with Ghedini 2004. 33 Édouard Bertrand already set the tone in the late nineteenth century (cf. Bertrand 1881, 57, 243–258, esp. 243–244: “Bien inférieur à son modèle, il n’a ni la même science ni le même sentiment artistique; les connaissances positives et pratiques lui manquent, comme le prouve l’absence d’observations techniques dans ses descriptions. Celles-ci sont souvent mal entendues; on n’y trouve qu’une médiocre intelligence de la composition et de l’expression”). A century later, readers have been only marginally less dismissive (e.g. Webb 1992, 10: “although the Younger Philostratos attempts to imitate his grandfather’s style, he fails dismally”; ibid. 15: “Although the Younger Philostratos was clearly aware of the qualities of his grandfather’s style, he did not succeed in imitating it”). 34 Friedländer 1912, 90. Cf. e.g. Schönberger and Kalinka 1968, 61–62, on how “dieser Rhetor bei weitem nicht das Können seines Großvaters [besaß]”. 35 The assessments are those of Lesky 1971, 937 and Münscher 1907, 556: these and other soundbites are collected in Noack-Hilgers 1999, 204 n. 11. Cf. also Fairbanks 1931, 277–278, claiming of the tenth description – my case study in this chapter – that the Younger Philostratus’ “one excursion into literature is his somewhat dull rendering of the Shield of Achilles”. 36 All the while, moreover, the author is well aware of the underlying critical analogy between the verbal and visual arts. As an example, one might consider the following sentence from towards the end of the proem (Praef. 7): γράμμασι γὰρ προστυχὼν χειρὸς ἀστείας, ἐν οἷς ἀρχαῖαι

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medium go hand in hand with an art of literary emulation: we move from the replications of the paintings to the replications of the descriptions – themselves written with an eye to a whole library of texts, and very often alluding to the earlier precedents of the Elder Philostratus.37 This aspect helps to explain why the proem makes so much of its literary archaeology, declaring its desire to “follow in the footsteps” of others (κατ᾽ ἴχνη χωρῆσαι θελήσαντες, Im. praef. 2). Offering a challenge to past precedent (ἀλλ᾽ ἐπιβάλωμεν τῷ φθάσαντι), the author promises either to succeed and offer something worthy of speech (τυχόντες γὰρ σκοποῦ ἀξίως λόγου πράξομεν), or else, by failing, to showcase his emulation of authors so conspicuously praised (τὸ γοῦν ἐπαινοῦντας φαίνεσθαι ζηλοῦν τὰ εὖ ἔχοντα ἑαυτοῖς δώσομεν, Im. praef. 1). The rhetorical trope of ecphrasis proves central to such talk of replication. As we have said, our later author expressly refers to the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus as “an ecphrasis of works of painting/description [graphikēs]” (τις γραφικῆς ἔργων ἔκφρασις, Praef. 1): not only does the proem frame that earlier text against an ancient rhetorical backdrop, he also establishes his own emulative project as something “ecphrastic” in turn.38 πράξεις οὐκ ἀμούσως ἔχουσαι ἦσαν, οὐκ ἠξίωσα σιωπῇ παρελθεῖν ταῦτα (“For when I have come across paintings/descriptions [grammasi] by a clever hand, in which ancient deeds were treated not without refinement, I did not think it right to pass them over in silence”). Quite apart from the pun on gramma – the author leaves it ambiguous whether he is here talking about actual paintings, or about written texts (namely the Imagines of his eponymous predecessor) – note how Philostratus subtly alludes to the Simonidean analogy of painting as “silent poetry” and poetry as “speaking painting” (cf. above, n. 2). 37 On the ways in which certain tableaux by the Younger Philostratus are modelled on – or allude to – those of the Elder Philostratus, see Fairbanks 1931, 275–276, along with e.g. Elsner 2004, 170–171; cf. below, e.g. nn. 52, 64, 66, 71, 72, 78, 91 and 92. 38 Cf. Lissarrague 1995, 82: “Philostrate le Jeune … s’y réfère en parlant, au singulier, d’une ‘certaine description d’œuvres graphiques’ (graphikēs ergōn ekphrasis). Le terme qu’il emploie, ekphrasis, est essential car il définit un genre littéraire fort apprécié des ancients, sur lequel il convient de s’arrêter un instant”. Pucci 2010, 7 follows Fuchs 1987, 15 in hypothesizing that the original title of the Elder Philostratus’ work might have been Ekphraseis (in accordance with e.g. the title preserved for Callistratus’ work): the conjecture is perhaps supported by the disputed evidence of the Suda, who talks about the “second” Philostratus composing an “Eikones or Ecphraseis in four books” (Εἰκόνας ἤτοι Ἐκφράσεις ἐν βιβλίοις δ᾽); on the other hand, in his earlier (late third-/early fourth-century) reference to the work, Menander Rhetor unambiguously refers to the title of Philostratus’ work as τὰς Εἰκόνας (cf. Russell and Wilson 1981, 116; cf. Webb 1992, 9–11). At any rate, the Younger Philostratus’ reference makes it clear that, at least by the early fourth century, the Elder Philostratus’ work could certainly be understood against an explicitly “ecphrastic” remit (pace e.g. Schönberger and Kalinka 1968: 26: “Eigentlich literarische Arbeiten (wie Philostrat’s Eikones) sind aber diese Beschreibungen noch nicht. Ein Vergleich der Beschreibungen bei Libanius oder Nikolaos zeigt, daß Philostrats Bilder völlig anderen Wesen sind”).

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So what might fourth-century readers have understood by that “ecphrastic” title? By the time our author was writing, the trope of ecphrasis had been expressly theorized as a self-standing trope of epideictic declamation. Our most important testimonies derive from a group of Imperial Greek rhetorical handbooks, or Progymasmata.39 Although the four most important discussions – by Theon, Hermogenes, Aphthonius and Nikolaus40 – display some important differences, the extant Progymasmata all define ecphrasis in strikingly similar ways. Theon’s explanation of ecphrasis as a “descriptive speech which brings the subject shown before the eyes with visual vividness” (ἔκφρασίς ἐστι λόγος περιηγηματικὸς ἐναργῶς ὑπ’ ὄψιν ἄγων τὸ δηλούμενον) seems to have been echoed almost verbatim among other Progymnasmata-authors.41 According to such definitions, ecphrasis is a special sort of “descriptive speech” (λόγος περιηγηματικός), one that transforms the subject described from something figuratively “shown” (τὸ δηλούμενον) into a sort of literal apparition “before the eyes” (ὑπ’ ὄψιν). Like other rhetoricians, Theon is somewhat elusive about how this transformation takes place. But for Theon, Hermogenes, Aphthonius and Nikolaus alike, a single word could describe the process: enargōs. The concept of enargeia was evidently key to rhetorical ideas about ecphrasis, and the term (whether as noun or adverb) recurs amid all the extant Progymnasmata discussions.42 According to Hermogenes, enargeia is one of two “virtues” of ecphrasis, working alongside saphēneia (“clarity”). “Ecphrasis is an interpretation that almost brings about seeing through hearing”, Hermogenes adds (τὴν ἑρμηνείαν διὰ τῆς ἀκοῆς σχεδὸν τὴν ὄψιν μηχανᾶσθαι: Prog. 10.48 = Rabe 1913, 23); the elements of ecphrasis, in the words of Nikolaus, “bring the subjects of the speech before our eyes and almost make speakers into spectators” (ὑπ’ ὄψιν ἡμῖν ἄγοντα ταῦτα, περὶ ὧν εἰσιν οἱ λόγοι, καὶ μονονοὺ θεατὰς εἶναι παρασκευάζοντα = Felten 1913, 70).43 39 Webb 2009 provides the decisive modern analysis, with useful appendix of the most important passages (in Greek and English translation) at pp. 197–211. Much has been written in recent years about the social, intellectual and pedagogical contexts of these educational handbooks (e.g. Anderson 1993, 47–53; Boeder 1996, 29–41; Webb 2001, esp. 294–295; Webb 2009, 39–59; Goldhill 2007, 3–8): as is to be expected, perhaps, “the approach these handbooks take proves to be relatively dry and matter-of-fact” (Bartsch 1989, 7–14, quotation from 9). 40 The texts themselves can be found in Rabe 1913, 22–23; Rabe 1926, 36–41; Felten 1913, 67– 71; Patillon and Bolognesi 1997, 66–69. 41 Prog. 118.7 = Patillon and Bolognesi 1997, 66. Hermogenes goes still further, acknowledging the formulaic explanation by adding “as they say” before his own explanatory gloss (ὡς φασίν: Prog. 10.47 = Rabe 1913, 22). 42 Cf. Manieri 1998, 149–154. 43 The thinking is not restricted to the Progymnasmata alone. One might compare e.g. Plut. Mor. [De glor. Ath.] 347a, discussing how the writer, “by making images through emotions and chracters, makes his narration like a painting [graphēn]” (τὴν διήγησιν ὥσπερ γραφὴν πάθεσι

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There can be no doubt that the Younger Philostratus wrote his Imagines with this rhetorical backdrop in view. As we shall see, the text plays knowingly with ecphrastic ideas of “bringing before the eyes”; wherever we look, moreover, we find Philostratus teasing out the promise of “seeing” through “hearing” (and indeed, reversing the sentiment, so that we can almost “hear” aspects of the painting through “viewing” it – or at least hearing/reading its description …). At the same time, it is worth noting how the very language of enargeia – which proves so fundamental to definitions of ecphrasis in the Progymnasmata – forges a connection with literary critical discussions of Homeric poetry, and not least of the Homeric “shield of Achilles” passage.44 As Ruth Webb has recently reminded us, the rhetorical trope of ecphrasis did not pertain only to the description of artworks.45 The Progymnasmata differentiate between a variety of “ecphrastic” themes: Theon, Hermogenes, Aphthonius and Nikolaus comment upon on what they call ecphraseis of “deeds” (pragmata), “persons” (prosōpa) and “places” (topoi), while some also talk about the interrelated categories of “times” (chronoi: Theon, Hermogenes, Nikolaus) and “opportunities” (kairoi: Hermogenes, Aphthonius).46 Indeed, Nikolaus alone – likely writing towards the end of the fifth century – mentions descriptions of “statues, paintings and the like” under the ecphrastic rubric.47 Still, as its pro-

καὶ προσώποις εἰδωλοποιήσας). Plutarch cites Thucydides as a foremost model (for detailed discussion see Hirsch-Luipold 2002, esp. 55–72): “Thucydides is always striving towards this vividness in his speech: he longs to make his listener like a spectator, and to produce vividly for his readers the emotions of amazement and consternation being experienced among those who see them” (ὁ δ᾽ οὖν Θουκυδίδης ἀεὶ τῷ λόγῳ πρὸς ταύτην ἁμιλλᾶται τὴν ἐνάργειαν, οἷον θεατὴν ποιῆσαι τὸν ἀκροατὴν καὶ τὰ γιγνόμενα περὶ τοὺς ὁρῶντας ἐκπληκτικὰ καὶ ταρακτικὰ πάθη τοῖς ἀναγινώσκουσιν ἐνεργάσασθαι λιχνευόμενος). 44 See above, pp. 357–364. 45 For the polemic, see Webb 2009, 61–86; cf. Webb 1999; James and Webb 1991, 6. For my own qualifications of Webb’s arguments here, see Squire 2015 – along with the earlier comments in Squire 2009. 46 For an overview, see Webb 2009, 61–86, with appendix at 213–214. Some authors also added idiosyncratic examples of their own: Theon includes descriptions of how something came about (tropoi), Aphthonius introduces “speechless animals and plants” (aloga zōa kai … phyta), and Nikolaus cites the example of “festivals” (panēgyreis). 47 The example is not mentioned amid the subjects of ecphrasis, but rather in Nikolaus’ description of how ecphrasis proceeds: ἀρξόμεθα δὲ ἀπὸ τῶν πρώτων, καὶ οὕτως ἐπι τὰ τελευταῖα ἥξομεν οἷον εἰ ἄνθρωπον χαλκοῦν ἢ ἐν γραφαῖς ἢ ὁπωσοῦν ἔχομεν ἐν τῇ ἐκφράσει ὑποκείμενον ἀπὸ κεφαλῆς τὴν ἀρχὴν ποιησάμενοι βαδιοῦμεν ἐπὶ τὰ κατὰ μέρος· οὕτω γὰρ πανταχόθεν ἔμψυχος ὁ λόγος γίνεται (Felten 1913, 69; trans. after Webb 2009, 203: “We will begin from the first things and then come to the last, so that if we have a bronze man or painted man or whatever is the subject of the ecphrasis we will start from the head and through the details in order. For thus the speech becomes lively [empsychos] throughout”).

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em confirms, this rhetorical framework was wholly applicable to the project of artistic description in the Imagines. By turning to the shield of Achilles as model, moreover, the Younger Philostratus relates the rhetorical trope of ecphrasis back to its Homeric heritage, associating his own description with antiquity’s paradigmatic prototype for the trope.48 If the Younger Philostratus drew on rhetorical ideas about ecphrasis, he also teased out the underlying philosophical stakes. The Progymnasmata do not discuss the intellectual archaeology of ecphrasis: their emphasis is very much on the persuasive force of bringing things “before the eyes”, harnessed to the larger project of effective epideictic rhetoric. Yet the terminology with which the Progymnasmata frame their discussions is revealing. Particularly important here is the term enargeia itself, a word that stretches back to Plato and Aristotle, but which came to be associated with Stoic discussions of phantasia or “cognitive impression”.49 Through the enargeia and saphēneia of an ecphrastic description, or so the thinking runs, a listener could (seem to) arrive at the same mental phantasia that a scene had originally brought to the “mind’s eye” of a speaker, writer or indeed artist. A related intellectual rationale seems to inform what, earlier in the first century, Quinitilian had called “visions” (uisiones: Inst. or. 6.2.29–30): translating the Greek term phantasiai, Quintilian defines such visions as the “means through which images of things that are absent are represented to the mind [per quas imagines rerum absentium ita repraesentantur animo], so that we seem to view them with our eyes and to have them present before us”.50 Closely related ideas resurface in the Imagines proem. After explaining the “most noble” concern of painting (ζωγραφίας ἄριστον καὶ οὐκ ἐπὶ σμικροῖς τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα) – and having touched upon the capacity of the painter to “discern the signs of men’s character even when they are silent” (γνωματεῦσαι ἠθῶν

48 For the argument that the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines was itself instrumental in shifting rhetorical ideas of ecphrasis, see Elsner 2002, 2: “It is not impossible that it was the existence of the corpus of Philostratus and his successors that prompted Nicolaus to introduce the specific discussion of the description of sculpture and painting into his Progymnasmata in the fifth century”; cf. also Elsner 2009, 10–11. On the Elder Philostratus’ recourse to the ecphrastic language of enargeia and saphēneia in his Imagines, see below, n. 96. 49 The bibliography on phantasia is substantial, but among the most important works are Zanker 1981; Meijering 1985, esp. 29–52; Rispoli 1985; Rispoli 1995, 51–72; Dubel 1997; Manieri 1998, esp. 179–192; Benediktson 2000, 163–188; Männlein-Robert 2003; Bartsch 2007; Platt 2009; Nünlist 2009, esp. 153–155, 194–198; Webb 2009, 87–130; Sheppard 2014. 50 For discussions, see e.g. Goldhill 2007, 3–5 and Webb 2009, esp. 93–96, along with the useful overview of Webb 2016; cf. more generally Henderson 1991, Vasaly 1993 and Scholz 1998.

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ξύμβολα καὶ σιωπώντων)51 – the Younger Philostratus embarks upon a philosophical explanation as to why paintings are pleasurable. What is crucial, we are told, is the “deception” or [apatē] involved (Praef. 4):52 ἡδεῖα δὲ καὶ ἡ ἐν αὐτῷ ἀπάτη καὶ οὐδὲν ὄνειδος φέρουσα, τὸ γὰρ τοῖς οὐκ οὖσιν ὡς οὖσι προσεστάναι καὶ ἄγεσθαι ὑπ᾽ αὐτῶν, ὡς εἶναι νομίζειν, ἀφ᾽ οὗ βλάβος οὐδέν, πῶς οὐ ψυχαγωγῆσαι ἱκανὸν καὶ αἰτίας ἐκτός; And the deception [apatē] inherent in this is pleasurable and involves no reproach. For to confront objects which do not exist as through they existed and to be influenced by them, to believe that they do exist, is not this, since no harm can come of it, a suitable and irreproachable means of providing entertainment?

Philostratus is here talking about the pleasurable “deceptions” of painting. But his comments prove equally pertinent to his own exercise of ecphrastic description (as well as the earlier model of his purported grandfather), referring to how words can conjure up visual images that absorb their readers. In what follows, Philostratus goes even further, explaining that art and poetry make common recourse to what he explicitly labels phantasia (ἡ τέχνη εὑρίσκεται καὶ κοινή τις ἀμφοῖν εἶναι φαντασία, Praef. 6).53 The whole project of the Imagines, we might say, is staked around philosophical debates about sight, insight and imagination – debates that pertain to the graphic arts of both literature and the visual arts alike. The comments about “deception” (apatē) also lay the ground for my particular case study in this chapter: as we shall see, the theme of illusion – of images describing words, and words depicting images – is central to Philostratus’ evocation of the shield of Achilles. Before introducing that passage, though, it is worth relating the preface back to ideas about ecphrasis in the Progymnasmata. Given the pedagogical remit of these handbooks, it is perhaps no surprise that they should emphasize the successful power of ecphrasis – its potential to “bring the subject shown before one’s eyes”. But the Progymasma-

51 Once again, the trope of “silence” returns us to the Simonidean idea of painting as “silent poetry”: cf. above, nn. 2 and 36. 52 On the relation of Philostratus’ talk of apatē here to a much longer critical tradition of theorizing mimesis, see Halliwell 2002, 118–124, along with e.g. 20–21 n. 49; cf. also Squire and Grethlein 2014, 301–309 (in the context of the Tabula Cebetis, with discussion of the Younger Philostratus at 305–306). Particularly important is Gorgias fr. 82 B 23: for discussion, see Cassin 1995, 476–478, and on the Philostratean debt to that passage cf. Webb 2006, 114. For the suggestion that the Younger Philostratus’ comments might themselves respond to the Elder Philostratus’ talk of apatē – above all in the context of Im. 1.23.3 and 1.28.2 (οἷον ἔπαθον) – cf. Webb 2006, 131 and 2009, 189. 53 For discussion, see especially Pugliara 2004, 14–15; cf. Webb 1992, 66–67.

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ta acknowledge the make-believe involved. However hard rhetoricians might try to “bring about seeing hearing”, the Progymnasmata make it clear that, by definition, ecphrasis is something fictitious: it is an art of “almost [σχεδόν] seeing through hearing” (in the words of Hermogenes), so that it “all but [μονονού] makes the audience into spectators” (as Nikolaus puts it).54 Much later, in his ninth-century commentary on Aphthonius’ Progymnasmata, John of Sardis would develop the point explicitly: “even if the speech were ten thousand times vivid [κἂν γὰρ μυριάκις ἐναργὴς εἴη ὁ λόγος], it would be impossible [ἀδύνατον] to bring ‘the thing shown’ or ecphrasized itself before the eyes”.55 The very trope of apatē introduced by Philostratus, in other words, develops an aspect of ecphrasis that was already implicit in ancient handbooks of rhetoric.

Re-viewing the shield of Achilles At this stage, let me finally turn to the Younger Philostratus’ tenth tableau, which seems to have been furnished with the title “Pyrrhus or the Mysians” (Πύρρος ἢ Μυσοί). Like the other passages within the book, the description amounts to a staged response to a painting: it is a rhetorical performance, staged between the speaker within the gallery and the silent boy who looks on (addressed in the second-person singular). The speech is by some considerable way the longest tableau in the Imagines. But because the text is little known, and since the comments that follow are based on a series of close readings, we should begin by presenting the purported speech in full:56

1

ΠΥΡΡΟΣ Η ΜΥΣΟΙ

Pyrrhus or the Mysians

τὰ Εὐρυπύλου καὶ Νεοπτολέμου ποιητῶν ὑμνεῖ χορός, πατρῴζειν τε αὐτοὺς ἄμφω καὶ τὴν χεῖρα εὐδοκίμους κατ᾿ ἰσχὺν εἶναι,

The story of Eurypylus and Neoptolemus is something sung by a chorus of poets – how both resemble their two fathers, and

54 10.48 = Rabe 1913, 23; Nikolaus = Felten 1913, 70 (cf. above, p. 373). In the words of Simon Goldhill, “rhetorical theory knows well that its descriptive power is a technique of illusion, semblance, and of making to appear” (Goldhill 2007, 3); cf. Becker 1995, 28. 55 = Rabe 1928, 216; cf. Webb 2009, 52–53. 56 I mostly follow the Greek text – and paragraph divisions – from the Teubner edition of Schenkl and Reisch 1907, 20–29; the translation is my own, although I have been guided in part by the English version of Fairbanks 1931, 325–343. With the exception of the French translation by Blaise de Vigenère, complete with detailed commentary (de Vigenère 1602, 46–63), the only other modern (Spanish) translation known to me is Gallé Cejudo 2001.

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φησὶ δὲ καὶ ἡ γραφὴ ταῦτα· ἡ τύχη γὰρ τὴν ἐξ ἁπάσης γῆς ἀρετὴν ἐς μίαν πόλιν συνενεγκοῦσα οἱ μὲν οὐκ ἀκλεεῖς οἴχονται, ἀλλ᾿ οἷοι πρὸς πολλοὺς δυστήνων δέ τε παῖδες εἰπεῖν οἳ ἐμῷ μένει ἀντιόωσιν, οἱ δὲ γενναῖοι γενναίων κρατοῦσι.

are famous for the strength of their hand; the painting/description [graphē] also tells of these things. For when fortune has gathered into a single city the valour of every land, some go away not without fame, but able to say to many people, “children of wretched men are they who encounter my wrath”,57 while noble men overcome noble men.

2

τὰ μὲν δὴ περὶ τῶν ἐν τῷ νικᾶν ἕτερα, νυνὶ δὲ περὶ τοὺς ξυνεστῶτας ἡ θέα. πόλις μὲν αὕτη Ἴλιος ὀφρυόεσσα, καθ᾿ Ὅμηρον, περιθεῖ δὲ αὐτὴν τεῖχος οἷον καὶ θεοὺς μὴ ἀπαξιῶσαι τῆς ἑαυτῶν χειρός, ναύσταθμόν τε ἐπὶ θάτερα καὶ στενὸς Ἑλλησπόντου διάρρους Ἀσίαν Εὐρώπης διείργων. τοὐν μέσῳ δὲ πεδίον ποταμῷ διαιρεῖται Ξάνθῳ, γέγραπται δὲ οὐ μορμύρων ἀφρῷ, οὐδ᾿ οἷος ἐπὶ τὸν τοῦ Πηλέως ἐπλήμμυρεν, ἀλλ᾿ εὐνὴ μὲν αὐτῷ λωτὸς καὶ θρύον καὶ ἁπαλοῦ δόνακος κόμαι, κατάκειται δὲ μᾶλλον ἢ ἀνέστηκε καὶ τὸν πόδα ἐπέχει ταῖς πηγαῖς ὑπὲρ ξυμμετρίας νῦν διυγραίνων αὐτα **† νάματος τὸ ῥεῦμα μέτρον.

The stories about the conquest are for another time, but the present sight has to do with the combatants. Here is the city of “beetling Ilium”, as Homer calls it,58 and a wall runs round about it such as even the gods disdained not to claim as the work of their own hands; on the other side is the station of the ships and the narrow strait of the Hellespont that separates Asia from Europe. The plain in the midst of the two is divided by the river Xanthus, and it is drawn/written [gegraptai] not as “roaring with foam”,59 nor yet as when it rose in flood against the son of Peleus, but its bed is clover and rush and foliage of tender reeds: instead of standing erect, Xanthos reclines and presses his foot on the springs to keep them well measured, now moistening … the stream keeps within bounds.60

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στρατιά τε ἑκατέρωθεν Μυσῶν τε ξὺν Τρωσὶ καὶ Ἑλλήνων ἐκ θατέρου, οἱ μὲν κεκμηκότες ἤδη οἱ Τρῶες, οἱ δὲ ἀκμῆτες οἱ ξὺν Εὐρυπύλῳ. ὁρᾷς δὲ αὐτῶν, ὡς οἱ μὲν

On each side is an army – one of Mysians together with Trojans, and opposite them an army of Greeks: the Trojans are already exhausted, but the Mysians under Eurypy-

57 Cf. Il. 6.127 and 21.151. 58 Cf. Il. 22.411. 59 Cf. Il. 21.325 (μορμύρων ἀφρῷ τε καὶ αἵματι καὶ νεκύεσσι). For the “visual” qualities of the image, cf. Schol. bT ad Il. 21.325a (= Erbse 1969–1988, 5.201): “These lines of Homer are unparalleled since they are successful not only by way of their sublime diction, but also through their appeal to an inner sense (ennoia): for one can see the wave that is inflated with blood and mixed with foam, as well as the bodies floating on it” (ἔστι δὲ ἀπαραμίλλητα ταῦτα τοῦ Ὁμήρου· οὐ γὰρ μόνον τῇ μεγαληγορίᾳ τῶν ὀνομάτων, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῇ ἐννοίᾳ κατώρθωται· ἔστι γὰρ ἰδεῖν κῦμα μετέωρον αἵματι καὶ ἀφρῷ μεμιγμένον καὶ τούτῳ ἐπιπλέοντα τὰ σώματα). 60 On the evident lacuna here, cf. Schenkl and Reisch 1902, 21.

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ἐν τοῖς ὅπλοις κάθηνται τάχα που τοῦτο Εὐρυπύλου αἰτήσαντος, καὶ χαίρουσι τῇ ἀνακωχῇ, οἱ δὲ ἔκθυμοί τε καὶ ἐξορμῶντες οἱ Μυσοὶ ἵενται, τό τε τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἐν ὁμοίᾳ καταστάσει τοῖς Τρωσὶν ὄντων πλὴν τῶν Μυρμιδόνων· ἐνεργοὶ γὰρ καὶ περὶ τὸν Πύρρον ἕτοιμοι.

lus are not exhausted. Of these two groups, you see how those in the first are seated in their armour, no doubt at the command of Eurypylus, and how they rejoice in their respite. By contrast, you see how the Mysians, full of spirit and impetuous, rush forward; and how the Greeks are in the same state as the Trojans – with the exception of the Myrmidons. For they are active and, under Pyrrhus, ready for action.

4

τὼ νεανία δέ, κάλλους μὲν ἕνεκεν ἐφερμηνεύοιτ᾿ ἂν οὐδέν, ἐπειδὴ ἐν ὅπλοις τὰ νῦν, μεγάλοι γε μὴν καὶ ὑπὲρ τοὺς ἄλλους· ἡλικία τε ἀμφοῖν ἴση τάς τε τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν βολὰς ἐνεργοὶ καὶ οὐ μέλλοντες. γοργὸν γὰρ τὸ ὄμμα ὑπὸ τῆς κόρυθος ἑκάστῳ, καὶ συναπονεύοντες ταῖς τῶν λόφων κινήσεσι καὶ ὁ θυμὸς ἐπιπρέπει σφίσι σιγῇ τε μένεα πνείουσιν ἐοίκασι. καὶ τὰ ὅπλα δὲ ἀμφοῖν πατρῷα, ἀλλ᾿ ὁ μὲν Εὐρύπυλος ἀσήμοις ἔσταλται καὶ παραλλάττουσι τὴν αὐγὴν ὅπῃ τε καὶ ὅπως κινοῖτο, ᾗ ἶρις, τῷ Πύρρῳ δὲ τὰ ἐξ Ἡφαίστου πάρεστιν, ἐκστάς ποτ᾿ αὐτῶν Ὀδυσσεὺς καὶ ἀπευξάμενος τὴν ἑαυτοῦ νίκην.

As for the two warriors, nothing can be interpreted regarding their beauty, since they are in arms at the moment, yet they are certainly tall and towering over the others: the age of the two is the same, and in the glances of their eyes they are active and unhesitating. For the eyes of each flash beneath their helmets, they bend their heads with the waving of their plumes, and in them their spirit stands out conspicuous, resembling as they do men “who breathe out wrath in silence”.61 Both wear the armour of their fathers, but while Eurypylus is clad in armour bearing no device (which gives forth, like a rainbow, a light that varies with his position and movements), Pyrrhus has the armour made by Hephaestus, which Odysseus, regretting his own victory, has yielded to him.

5

θεωρῶν δέ τις τὰ ὅπλα λεῖπον εὑρήσει τῶν Ὁμήρου ἐκτυπωμάτων οὐδέν, ἀλλ᾿ ἀκριβῶς ἡ τέχνη δείκνυσι τἀκεῖθεν πάντα. τὸ μὲν γὰρ γῆς τε καὶ θαλάσσης καὶ οὐρανοῦ σχῆμα οὐδὲ φράζοντος οἶμαι δεήσει τινός, ἡ μὲν γὰρ αὐτόθεν ἰδόντι δήλη τὴν ἑαυτῆς χρόαν ὑπὸ τοῦ δημιουργοῦ λαβοῦσα, τὴν δ᾿ αἱ πόλεις καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῇ γῆν γράφουσι καὶ μικρόν γε ὕστερον πεύσῃ περὶ ἑκάστων, οὐρανὸς δὲ ὅδε. ὁρᾷς που τόν τε τοῦ ἡλίου κύκλον, ὡς ἀκάμας ἐν αὐτῷ, καὶ τὸ τῆς πανσελήνου φαιδρόν.

If one looks at this armour he will find that none of the impressions of Homer has been missed out, but that the art [technē] accurately shows everything from there. For the shape of earth and sea and sky will not, I think, require anyone to speak of them: the sea is evident at once to the person who looks, since it has been given its proper colour by the creator; the land – this the cities and other terrestrial things in it paint/describe [graphousi], and you will shortly learn about each

61 Cf. Il. 3.8.

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thing in turn; and here is the Sky. You see, no doubt, the circle of the unwearying sun and the brightness of the full moon. 6

ἀλλά μοι δοκεῖς περὶ τῶν καθ᾿ ἕκαστον ἄστρων ποθεῖν ἀκοῦσαι· τὸ γὰρ διαλλάττον αὐτῶν τὴν αἰτίαν σοι παρέχει τῆς πεύσεως· αἱδὶ μέν σοι Πλειάδες σπόρου τε καὶ ἀμητοῦ ξύμβολα δυόμεναι ἢ αὖ πάλιν ἐκφανῶς ἔχουσαι, ὡς ἂν καὶ τὰ τῆς ὥρας αὐτὰς ἄγῃ, Ὑάδες δ᾿ ἐπὶ θάτερα. ὁρᾷς καὶ τὸν Ὠρίωνα, τὸν δὲ ἐπ᾿ αὐτῷ μῦθον καὶ τὴν ἐν ἄστροις αἰτίαν ἐς ἕτερον ἀναβαλώμεθα, ὦ παῖ, καιρόν, ὡς ἂν μὴ ἀπάγοιμέν σε τῶν νῦν ἐν πόθῳ. οἱ δ᾿ ἐπ᾿ αὐτῷ ἀστέρες ἄρκτος ἢ εἰ ἅμαξαν καλεῖν βούλοιο. φασὶ δὲ αὐτὴν καὶ μόνην οὐ δύεσθαι ἐν Ὠκεανῷ, ἀλλ᾿ αὐτὴν περὶ αὑτὴν στρέφεσθαι οἷον φύλακα τοῦ Ὠρίωνος.

But I think you want to hear about the stars one by one, for the differences between them provide a reason for your question. These here are the Pleiades, signs for sowing and for reaping when they set or when they appear once more, as the changes of the season bring them – and opposite them are the Hyades. You see also Orion, but the story about him and the reason why he is one of the stars we must leave for another occasion, my boy, so that we may not divert you from the objects of your present yearning. The stars next to Orion are the Bear (or the Wagon, if you should you wish to call it that). They say that this constellation alone does not sink into the Ocean, but revolves around itself so as to keep watch over Orion.

7

ἴωμεν δὴ λοιπὸν διὰ γῆς ἀφέμενοι τῶν ἄνω καὶ τῶν γε ἐν γῇ κάλλιστον θεώμεθα τὰς πόλεις. ὁρᾷς μὲν δή, ὡς διτταί τινες αὗται· ποτέραν οὖν προτέραν ἀφερμηνευθῆναί σοι βούλει; ἢ τὸ τῶν λαμπάδων φῶς καὶ τὸ τοῦ ὑμεναίου μέλος καὶ ὁ τῶν αὐλῶν ἦχος καὶ ἡ τῆς κιθάρας κροῦσις καὶ ὁ τῶν ὀρχουμένων ῥυθμὸς ἐς αὑτά σε ἄγει; ὁρᾷς δὲ καὶ τὰ γύναια τῶν προθύρων ὡς διαφαίνονται θαυμάζοντα καὶ μόνον οὐκ ἐκβοῶντα ὑπὸ χαρμονῆς. γάμοι ταῦτα, ὦ παῖ, καὶ πρώτη ξύνοδος νυμφίων καὶ ἄγονται τὰς νύμφας οἱ γαμβροί. τὸ δὲ τῆς αἰδοῦς καὶ τοῦ ἱμέρου, ὡς ἐπιπρέπει ἑκάστῳ, παρίημι λέγειν, σοφώτερον αὐτὰ τοῦ δημιουργοῦ αἰνιξαμένου.

Let us now make our way over the earth, leaving the upper regions, and let us examine the most beautiful of the things on the earth: the cities. You see how there are two of these. Which do you wish to be explained to you first? Do the light of the torches, the marriage hymn, the sound of the flutes, the plucking of the lyre and the rhythmic motion of the dancers lead you to them? You see also the women visible through the vestibules as they marvel and all but shout for joy. This is a marriage, my boy, the first gathering of the bridal party, and the bridegrooms are leading their brides. As for the matters of modesty and desire – how they are conspicuous in each man – this I refrain from speaking about, since the creator has hinted at it with greater skill.

8

ἀλλ᾿ ἰδοὺ καὶ δικαστήριόν τι καὶ ξυνέδρα κοινὴ καὶ γέροντες σεμνοὶ σεμνῶς προκαθήμενοι τοῦ ὁμίλου. τὸ δὲ ἐν μέσῳ

But look also here, at a court of justice, a general session and dignified old men presiding in dignified manner over the

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χρυσίον τάλαντα μὲν δύο ταῦτ᾿ οὐκ οἶδ᾿ ἐφ᾿ ὅτῳ· ἤ, νὴ Δί᾿, εἰκάσαι χρή, ὡς μισθὸς τῷ ὀρθῶς ἐκδικάσοντι, ὡς ἂν μὴ πρὸς δῶρά τις τὴν οὐκ εὐθεῖαν φέροι. τίς δ᾿ ἡ δίκη; διττοὶ μὲν ἐν μέσῳ τινὲς οὗτοι, δοκεῖν ἐμοί, φονικὸν ἔγκλημα ὁ μὲν ἐπάγων θατέρῳ, τὸν δ᾿ ὁρᾷς, ὡς ἔξαρνός ἐστιν. οὐ γὰρ κατασχεῖν ὅπερ αὐτῷ προφέρει ὁ κατήγορος, καταθεὶς δὲ τὰ ὑποφόνια καθαρὸς ἥκειν. ὁρᾷς καὶ τοὺς ἐπιβοηθοῦντας ἑκατέρῳ διχῇ καὶ νέμοντας τὴν βοήν, ὅτῳ φίλον· ἀλλ᾿ ἥ γε τῶν κηρύκων παρουσία καθίστησιν αὐτοὺς καὶ εἰς τὸ ἡσυχαῖον ἄγει. ταυτὶ μὲν οὖν σοι μέση τις πολέμου καὶ εἰρήνης ἐν οὐ πολεμουμένῃ πόλει κατάστασις.

crowd. As for the gold in the centre – these two talents here – I do not know what it is for; unless, by Zeus, one should imagine that it is a reward to be paid to the judge who shall deliver straight judgment, in order that no judge may be influenced by gifts to give the wrong verdict. And what is the legal suit? Here are two men in the middle, I think, the one bringing a charge of bloodshed, the other as you see denying it: for he claims that he is not guilty of the things the accuser brings against him, but, having paid the bloodmoney, that he has freed himself of offence. You see also men who clamour for each man, in two groups, raising their voices for each according to preference; but the presence of the heralds keeps them in check and returns them to silence. So it is that this scene is a state of affairs midway between war and peace in a city that is not at war.

 9

ἑτέραν δὲ ὁρᾷς, ὡς τειχήρης, καὶ τό γε τεῖχος ὡς οἱ δι᾿ ἡλικίαν ἀπόμαχοι φρουροῦσι διαλαβόντες, γύναιά τε γὰρ ἔστιν οὗ τῶν ἐπάλξεων καὶ γέροντες οὗτοι καὶ κομιδῇ παιδία. ποῖ δὴ τὸ μάχιμον αὐτοῖς; ἐνταῦθα εὕροις ἂν τούτους, οἳ δὴ Ἄρει τε καὶ Ἀθηνᾷ ἕπονται. τουτὶ γάρ, μοι δοκεῖν, ἡ τέχνη φησὶ τοὺς μὲν χρυσῷ τε καὶ μεγέθει δηλώσασα θεοὺς εἶναι, τοῖς δὲ τὸ ὑποδεέστερον δι᾿ αὐτῆς δοῦσα. ἐξίασι δὲ τὴν τῶν ἐναντίων οὐ δεξάμενοι πρόκλησιν, νέμεσθαι γὰρ τὸν ἐν τῇ πόλει πλοῦτον ἢ μὴ νεμομένων ἐν τοῖς ὅπλοις εἶναι.

The second city that you see is walled, and those unfitted for war (by reason of their age) guard the walls at intervals; for there are women at certain points on the battlements, and here are old men and even children. Where, though, have their fighting men gone? You may find them over there – the men who follow Ares and Athena. For this is what, I believe, the art (technē) says, making it clear through their gold and stature that these are gods, and giving the others their lower stature by this device. They are issuing forth for battle, having refused the proposals of the enemy – namely, that the wealth of the city be apportioned among them, or else, if it be not so apportioned, that it would come from arms.

10

λόχον δὴ διατάττουσιν ἐντεῦθεν. τουτὶ γάρ, μοι δοκεῖν, ἡ πρὸς ταῖς ὄχθαις αἰνίττεται λόχμη, οὗ δὴ καθωπλισμένους αὐτοὺς ὁρᾷς. ἀλλ᾿ οὐκ ἂν ἐγγένοιτ᾿ αὐτοῖς χρήσασθαι τῷ λόχῳ· ὁ γάρ τοι ἔπηλυς

As a result they are devising an ambush; for that, it seems to me, is hinted by the thicket along the banks of the river, where you see men decked with arms. But it would not prove possible for them to prof-

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στρατὸς σκοπούς τινας καθίσας λείαν ἐλάσασθαι περινοεῖ. καὶ δὴ οἱ μὲν ἄγουσι νομεῖς τὰ θρέμματα ὑπὸ συρίγγων. ἢ οὐ προσβάλλει σε τὸ λιτὸν καὶ αὐτοφυὲς τῆς μούσης καὶ ἀτεχνῶς ὄρειον; ὕστατα δὲ χρησάμενοι τῇ μουσικῇ δι᾿ ἄγνοιαν τοῦ ἐπ᾿ αὐτοῖς δόλου τεθνᾶσιν, ὡς ὁρᾷς, τῶν πολεμίων ἐπελθόντων καὶ ἀπελαύνεταί τις λεία πρὸς αὐτῶν. φήμη δὴ τῶν πραχθέντων ἐς τοὺς λοχῶντας ἐλθοῦσα ἀνίστανται οὗτοι καὶ ἐφ᾿ ἵππων ἐς τὸν πόλεμον χωροῦσι καὶ τάς τε ὄχθας ἔστιν ἰδεῖν πλήρεις τῶν μαχομένων καὶ βαλλόντων ἐς αὐτούς.

it from the ambush; for the invading army has stationed scouts and is planning to drive off the booty. And indeed the shepherds are herding their flocks with their pipes. Or does the simple, self-made and artlessly [atechnōs] highland music not reach you? But having used their music for the last time, ignorant of the plot devised against them, they are dead, as you see; for the enemy has attacked them, and a portion of their flocks is being driven away as booty by the raiders. Word of what has occurred has reached the men in ambush, and they get up and go into battle on horseback; and you can see the banks of the river full of men fighting and hurling javelins at them.

11

τοὺς δὲ ἐν αὐτοῖς ἀναστρεφομένους καὶ τὴν πεφοινιγμένην λύθρῳ δαίμονα αὐτήν τε καὶ τὴν ἐσθῆτα τί ἐροῦμεν; Ἔρις καὶ Κυδοιμὸς ταῦτα καὶ Κήρ, ὑφ᾿ ᾗ τὰ πολέμου πάντα. ὁρᾷς γάρ τοι, ὡς οὐ μίαν ὁδὸν χωρεῖ, ἀλλ᾿ ὃν μὲν ἄτρωτον ἐς τὰ ξίφη προβάλλει, ὃς δ᾿ ὑφέλκεται ὑπ᾿ αὐτὴν νεκρός, ὃν δὲ καὶ νεότρωτον ἐπισπέρχει. οἱ δ᾿ ἄνδρες φοβεροὶ τῆς ὁρμῆς καὶ τοῦ βλέμματος ὡς οὐδὲν διαλλάττειν ἐμοὶ ζώντων ἐν ταῖς ὁρμαῖς δοκοῦσιν.

What shall we say of those who pass to and fro in their midst, and of that spirit whose body and clothing are reddened with gore? These are Strife and Tumult and Death, to whom all matters of war are subject. For you see, surely, that Death follows no one course, but thrusts one man, as yet unwounded, onto the swords, while another is dragged away as a corpse by her, and this one she hastens on even though he is wounded. As for the soldiers, they are so terrifying in their onrush and their fierce gaze that they seem to me not to differ at all from living men in the assaults of battle.

12

ἀλλ᾿ ἰδοὺ πάλιν εἰρήνης ἔργα· νειὸς γὰρ αὕτη διαφαίνεται τρίπολος οἶμαί τις, εἴ τι χρὴ τῷ τῶν ἀροτήρων ξυμβάλλεσθαι πλήθει, καὶ τά γε ζεύγη τῶν βοῶν θαμὰ ἀναστρέφει ἐν ταύτῃ κύλικός τινος ἐκδεχομένης ἀρότην ἐπὶ τῷ τῆς αὔλακος τέλει, μελαίνεσθαί τε 〈δοκεῖ〉 τὸν χρυσὸν περισχ〈ίζ〉ουσα.

But look again at the works of peace. This here is clearly farmland – thrice-ploughed, I think, if one should infer from the number of the ploughmen; and in the field the pairs of oxen are being frequently turned round, since a wine-cup awaits the ploughman at the end of the furrow – and the plough (?) as it cleaves the earth seems to make the gold turn black.

13

ἑξῆς ὁρᾷς τέμενος βασιλέως οἶμαί τινος τεκμήρασθαι, ὃς τὸ γεγηθὸς ἐλέγχεται τῆς ψυχῆς ὑπὸ τῆς ἐν ὄψει φαιδρότητος. καὶ

Next you see an enclosure – that of a king (I think I can infer), who attests to the gladness of his spirit by the brightness of his

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τήν γε αἰτίαν τῆς χαρᾶς οὐδὲ ζητεῖν χρή· τὸ γάρ τοι λήιον πολλῷ τῷ μέτρῳ τὴν σπορὰν ὑπερβαλεῖσθαι διελέγχουσιν οἵ τε διὰ σπουδῆς ἀμῶντες καὶ οἱ ταῖς ἀμάλαις τὰ κειρόμενα τῶν δραγμάτων δέοντες, οἷς ἕτεροι προσάγουσι καὶ μάλα συντόνως.

eyes. The cause of his delight is not far to seek: for that the crop in great measure exceeds its sowing is proved by the workers who are busily cutting the grain and by those who are binding the bunches of cut stalks into sheaves (which others bring to them with great eagerness).

14

ἡ δὲ δρῦς οὐκ ἀκαίρως ἐνταῦθα οὐδ᾿ ἔξω λόγου· σκιά τε γὰρ ἀμφιλαφὴς ὑπ᾿ αὐτῇ ψυχάσαι τοῖς ἐν τῷ ἔργῳ καμοῦσι, καὶ βοῦς οὑτοσὶ πίων καθιερωθεὶς ὑπὸ τῶν κηρύκων, οὓς ὁρᾷς, ὑπὸ τῇ δρυὶ δαὶς προτίθεται τοῖς περὶ τὴν συλλογὴν τοῦ πυροῦ κάμνουσι. τὰ δὲ γύναια τί φῄς; ἆρ᾿ οὐκ ἐπτοῆσθαί σοι δοκεῖ καὶ διακελεύεσθαι ἀλλήλοις συχνὰ μάττειν τῶν ἀλφίτων δεῖπνον εἶναι τοῖς ἐρίθοις;

The oak tree here is not out of place – nor without a reason! For there is abundant shade beneath it for the refreshment of such as grow weary from their labour. And this fat ox here has been consecrated by the heralds whom you see and laid out as a meal beneath the oak for those who labour at gathering the wheat. And what do you say of the women? Do they not seem to you to be full of excitement and to be encouraging each other to knead plenty of barley meal as a dinner for the harvesters?

15

εἰ δὲ καὶ ὀπώρας δεήσει, πάρεστί σοι ἀλωὴ χρυσῆ μὲν τῶν ἀμπέλων, μέλαινα δὲ τοῦ καρποῦ. τὸ δὲ τῆς καπέτου κυανὸν ἐτεχνήθη οἶμαι τῷ δημιουργῷ πρὸς δήλωσιν τοῦ ἐν αὐτῇ βάθους· ἀρκεῖ γάρ σοι τὸ περὶ ταῖς ἡμερίσιν ἕρκος ἐν τῷ καττιτέρῳ νοεῖν. ὁ δ᾿ ἄργυρος ὁ ἐν τῷ ἀμπελῶνι, κάμακες ταῦτα, τοῦ μὴ χαμαὶ κλιθῆναι τὰ φυτὰ βρίσαντα τῷ καρπῷ. τί δ᾿ ἂν εἴποις περὶ τῶν τρυγώντων; οἳ δὴ διὰ τῆς στενῆς ταύτης εἰσόδου εἰσφρήσαντες ἑαυτοὺς ταλάροις ἐναποτίθενται τὸν καρπὸν μάλα ἡδεῖς καὶ πρόσφοροι τὴν ἡλικίαν τῷ ἔργῳ.

If there should also be need of fruit, here you have a vineyard, golden from the vines and black from the grapes. The dark blue of the ditch has been crafted (etechnēthē), I think, by the creator so as to show its depth; for you can already recognize in the tin the barrier surrounding the vines. As for the silver in the vineyard, these are props, to keep the vines, laden with fruit, from being bent to the earth. And what would you say of the men gathering the grapes? Making their way through this narrow passage they pile up the fruit in baskets, charming persons and well suited in their age to the task.

16

παρθένοι τε γὰρ καὶ ἠίθεοι εὔιον καὶ βακχικὸν ἐν ῥυθμῷ βαίνουσιν ἐνδιδόντος αὐτοῖς τὸν ῥυθμὸν ἑτέρου, ὃν οἶμαι ξυνίης ἀπό τε τῆς κιθάρας καὶ τοῦ λεπτὸν προσᾴδειν δοκεῖν τοῖς φθόγγοις.

For young men and maidens both move forward in their rhythm, with Evian and Bacchic step, while another gives them the rhythm – of whom you are doubtless aware, both from his lyre, and from the fact that he seems to be singing softly to the notes.

17

εἰ δὲ καὶ τὴν ἀγέλην ἐννοήσειας τῶν βοῶν, αἳ δὴ πρὸς τὴν νομὴν ἵενται ἑπομένων

And if you should also notice the herd of cattle which press forward to their pasture

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αὐταῖς τῶν νομέων, τῆς μὲν χρόας οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσειας, εἰ καὶ χρυσοῦ καὶ καττιτέρου πᾶσα, τὸ δὲ καὶ μυκωμένων ὥσπερ ἀκούειν ἐν τῇ γραφῇ καὶ τὸν ποταμὸν κελάδοντα εἶναι δοκεῖν, παρ᾿ ὃν αἱ βόες, πῶς οὐκ ἐναργείας πρόσω; τοὺς δὲ λέοντας οὐδ᾿ ἂν ἀφερμηνεῦσαί μοί τις ἐπαξίως δοκεῖ καὶ τὸν ὑπ᾿ αὐτοῖς ταῦρον, ὁ μὲν γὰρ μεμυκέναι δοκῶν καὶ σπαίρειν σπαράττεται ἤδη πως ἐμπεφυκότων τοῖς ἐντοσθιδίοις τῶν λεόντων, οἱ δὲ κύνες, ἐννέα δ᾿ οἶμαι οὗτοι, ἕπονται τῇ ἀγέλῃ καὶ παρὰ τῶν ἰθυνόντων αὐτοὺς νομέων ἐγγὺς μὲν ἵενται τῶν λεόντων ὑλακῇ πτοεῖν ἐθέλοντες αὐτούς, προσμιγνύναι δ᾿ οὐ τολμῶσιν ἐπισπερχόντων αὐτοὺς καὶ ταῦτα τῶν νομέων. ὁρᾷς δὲ καὶ διασκιρτῶντα τοῦ ὄρους θρέμματα καὶ τοὺς σταθμοὺς καὶ τὰς σκηνὰς καὶ τοὺς σηκούς· οἶκον ποιμνίων νόει ταῦτα.

with the herdsmen following them, you might not marvel at the colour (even if the whole herd is made of gold and tin), but also at the fact that it’s as if you hear the cows mooing in the painting/description (graphē), and that the river beside the cows seems to be making a splashing sound – is this not the height of vividness (enargeia)? As for the lions, no one, it seems to me, could do them justice in a description, or to the bull beneath them. For the bull, seeming to bellow and quiver, is being torn to pieces (the lions have already taken hold of its entrails), while the dogs – I think there are nine of them – follow the herd and, at the command of the herdsmen who are directing them, rush up close to the lions, wishing to frighten them with their barking, but they dare not come up close, even though the herdsmen are urging them to do that too. And you see also sheep leaping on the mountain, and sheep-folds, and huts and pens: you recognize these as the home of the flocks.

18

λοιπὸς οἶμαι χορός τις οὑτοσὶ προσόμοιος τῷ Δαιδάλου, φασὶ δ᾿ αὐτὸν Ἀριάδνῃ τῇ Μίνω πρὸς αὐτοῦ δοθῆναι. τίς δ᾿ ἡ τέχνη; παρθένοις ἠίθεοι τὰς χεῖρας ἐπιπλέξαντες χορεύουσι. σὺ δ᾿, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐκ ἀρκεσθήσῃ τούτῳ, εἰ μή σοι καὶ τὰ τῆς ἐσθῆτος ἐξακριβώσομαι τῷ λόγῳ· οὐκοῦν αἱδὶ μὲν ὀθόναις ἤσκηνται στεφάνας ἐπὶ ταῖς κεφαλαῖς χρυσᾶς φέρουσαι, τοῖς δ᾿ εὐήτριοι μὲν καὶ λεπτοὶ περίκεινται χιτῶνες, μαχαίρας δὲ τῶν μηρῶν ἐξήρτηνται χρυσᾶς ἀργυρῶν τελαμώνων ξυνεχόντων αὐτάς.

The remaining scene, I think, is this here troupe of dancers here, like the one which they say Daedalus gave to Ariadne, the daughter of Minos. What is the art (technē)? Young men and maidens are dancing with joined hands. But you, it seems, will not be content with this, unless I also give you a precise account of their garments in words. Well, the women here are clothed in fine linen and wear golden crowns on their heads, but delicate thin chitons are sported by the men, and golden swords hang at their sides, with silver belts holding them in place.

19

ἀλλ᾿ ἐν κύκλῳ μὲν ἰόντων, τοῦτ᾿ ἐκεῖνο, τροχοῦ περιδίνησιν ὁρᾷς νοήσει κεραμέως ἔργον τινός, εἴ πη δυσκόλως ἢ μὴ τοῦ περιθεῖν ἔχοι, πειρῶντος. στοιχηδὸν δὲ ἰόντων αὖθις πολύ τι χρῆμα ἐπιρρεῖ, ὅπως ἔχουσι τέρψεως, ἐπιδηλούντων· καὶ γάρ τινες ἐν μέσοις οὗτοι κυβιστῶντες καὶ

But as they move in a circle – this here – you see in your mind the whirling of a wheel, the work of a potter who tries his wheel to see whether it turns with difficulty or not. And as they advance again in rows, a great crowd approaches of people who show how merry they are. For some,

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ἄλλοτε ἄλλην ὄρχησιν ἐπιδεικνύμενοι ἄγειν μοι σαφῶς αὐτοὺς ἐς τὸ θαῦμα δοκοῦσιν.

here in the centre, doing somersaults and each showing off different kinds of dancing, seem clearly to me to be arousing wonder in them.

20

ἡ δὲ δὴ κύκλῳ τῆς ἄντυγος θαλάσσης εἰκὼν οὐ θάλαττα, ὦ παῖ, Ὠκεανὸν δὲ νοεῖν χρὴ ὅρον εἶναι τεχνηθέντα τῆς ἐν τῷ σάκει γῆς. ἱκανῶς ἔχεις τῶν ἐκτυπωμάτων.

The image of the sea on the circle of the rim is not the sea, my boy, but you must consider the Ocean to be the boundary of the land that has been crafted (technēthenta) on the shield. That’s enough about the impressions.

21

ἄθρει δὴ καὶ τὰ περὶ τοὺς νεανίας, ξὺν ὁποτέρῳ αὐτῶν ἡ νίκη· ἰδοὺ γὰρ καὶ καθῄρηται ὁ Εὐρύπυλος κατὰ τῆς μασχάλης ὤσαντος αὐτῷ καιρίαν τοῦ Πύρρου καὶ κρουνηδὸν ἐκχεῖται τὸ αἷμα, κεῖταί τε ἀνοιμωκτὶ πολὺς κατὰ τῆς γῆς ἐκχυθείς, μόνον οὐ φθάσας τὴν πληγὴν τῷ πτώματι διὰ τὸ ἐς καιρὸν τοῦ τραύματος. ἔτ᾿ ἐν τῷ τῆς πληγῆς ὁ Πύρρος σχήματι ῥεόμενος τὴν χεῖρα τῷ λύθρῳ πολλῷ κατὰ τοῦ ξίφους ἐνεχθέντι, οἱ Μυσοί τε οὐκ ἀνασχετὰ ἡγούμενοι ταῦτα ἐπὶ τὸν νεανίαν χωροῦσιν. ὁ δ᾿ ἐς αὐτοὺς βλοσυρὸν ὁρῶν μειδιᾷ καὶ ὑφίσταται τὸ στῖφος καὶ τάχα που κρύψει τὸν Εὐρυπύλου νεκρὸν σωρηδὸν ἐπ᾿ αὐτῷ τοὺς νεκροὺς νήσας.

Now look at the warriors, and with which of them lies the victory. For look, Eurypylus has been laid low by a fatal wound dealt him in the armpit by Pyrrhus: his blood pours forth in streams, and he lies without a groan, stretched out as a mighty corpse upon the ground, having fallen almost before the blow was struck, so well aimed was the wound. Still in his pose of striking is Pyrrhus, his hand streaming with the gore which drops in copious quantity from his sword, and the Mysians, thinking this unendurable, are advancing against the youth. But looking at them grimly, he is smiling and taking his stand against their ranks; and doubtless he will soon bury the body of Eurypylus, heaping a mound of dead bodies on top of it.

Readers will instantly spot how this passage relates to my opening comments about the Homeric shield of Achilles. After all, the bulk of the description (in paragraphs 5–20) is dedicated to the armour worn by Pyrrhus, as originally crafted for the protagonist of the Iliad: the painting (or at least Philostratus’ description of it) derives from the poetic model of the Homeric ecphrasis, describing the marvellous imagery originally crafted by Hephaestus. But this armour emerges in a somewhat unexpected pictorial setting. As we have said, the title of this tableau is not “the shield of Achilles”, but “Pyrrhus and the Mysians”: the passage does not describe an isolated image of Achilles’ armour, nor does it evoke a scene of Hephaestus making it (as the Homeric original had done);62 instead, Philostratus has re-framed the Homeric 62 In the eighteenth chapter of his Laokoon (1766), Lessing famously commented on the Homeric narration of Hephaestus’ making the shield, contrasting Virgil’s description of the shield

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passage, situating it within a different mythological narrative about Pyrrhus (also known as Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles) and Eurypylus.63 The opening underscores the literary pedigree of the story (which “a chorus of poets sings”, ποιητῶν ὑμνεῖ χορός, 1), loading it with multiple allusions to Homer (καθ᾽ Ὅμηρον, 2), while the second to fourth paragraphs outline the combined narrative and pictorial setting: after the topographical backdrop has been sketched in paragraph two,64 the third paragraph describes how the armed of Aeneas: “Homer mahlet nehmlich das Schild nicht als ein fertiges vollendetes, sondern als ein werdendes Schild” (Lessing 2012, 134); less well known is the fact that Lessing related the comment back to ancient critique – namely, Servius’ commentary ad Aen. 8.625 (Lessing 2012, 135–136 n. 5; for the passage, cf. Thilo and Hagen 1923–1927, 2.285, with discussion in Laird 1996, 78–79). For a range of responses to Lessing’s attempt to draw up the boundaries (Grenzen) between “poetry” and “painting” – a project, of course, that has a direct relevance to the Imagines, despite its very different cultural and intellectual framework – see the essays in Lifschitz and Squire 2017. 63 Our earliest reference to the myth comes in Od. 11.519–522, and the subject seems to have been treated in the Little Iliad (cf. West 2013, 163–222; Kelly 2015): for further literary references, cf. Pasquariello 2004, 111 n. 3. Within the context of Philostratus’ tableau, it is worth noting how the scenes of the armour described echo the narrative frame of the picture as a whole, forming a remarkable mise en scène: the urban setting of Troy, with a wall running around the city (περιθεῖ δὲ αὐτὴν τεῖχος, 2), mirrors the description of the city at war (ἑτέραν δὲ ὁρᾷς, ὡς τειχήρης …, 9); the final image of Pyrrhus’ bloody defeat of Neoptolemos in paragraph 21 replays the scene of warfare evoked in paragraph 11 (including the plethora of corpses: νεκρός / νεκρούς). Within this description of these heroes – equipped in their armour (ὅπλοις τὰ νῦν, 4; cf. ἐν τοῖς ὅπλοις, 3), and both wearing the arms of their fathers (καὶ τὰ ὅπλα δὲ ἀμφοῖν πατρῷα, 4) – we see figures similarly decked out in armour (καθωπλισμένους αὐτοὺς ὁρᾷς, 10); likewise the detail of the two protagonists as “tall and towering over the others” (μεγάλοι γε μὴν καὶ ὑπὲρ τοὺς ἄλλους, 4) is recalled in the image of Athena and Ares in the city at war, who are said in paragraph 9 to outsize the soldiers around them. 64 The significance of this second paragraph, with its account of the river Xanthos (Scamander), lies in its resonance not just with the Iliad, but also with the Elder Philostratus’ description of a related scene (as the programmatic first tableau of his Imagines, evoking precisely the flooding of the river Scamander: for discussion, cf. Squire and Elsner 2017 on Phil. Mai. Im. 1.1). Where the Elder Philostratus begins the Imagines by discussing how the painting relates to/ departs from the Iliadic account, the Younger Philostratus opens our tableau by situating his imitation against an Elder Philostratean prototype: the river Xanthos has been “drawn/written … not as when it rose in flood against the son of Peleus” (γέγραπται … οὐδ᾿ οἷος ἐπὶ τὸν τοῦ Πηλέως ἐπλήμμυρεν, 2). One might also note the programmatic language used to introduce the detail: despite the lacuna, the language of “symmetry” (ὑπὲρ ξυμμετρίας) – reinforced by the subsequent reference to τὸ ῥεῦμα μέτρον – echoes the author’s reference to painterly “symmetry” in the proem (ξυμμετρίας τῆς ἐν γραφικῇ, Praef. 5), which itself harks back to the loaded opening sentence of the proem to the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines, where the author at once defends painting and compares its resources with those of poetry (ξυμμετρίαν … δι᾽ ἣν καὶ λόγου ἡ τέχνη ἅπτεται, Phil. Mai. Im. Praef. 1). Although the shield of Achilles is not a subject in the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines, the author had elsewhere turned

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Mysians and Trojans are pitched against the Greeks, and the fourth homes in on our two central protagonists. Both heroes, we are told, are kitted out in the armour of their fathers.65 But where Eurypylus’ armour is without device (ἀσήμοις, 4),66 Pyrrhus wears the arms yielded to him by Odysseus, originally designed by Hephaestus (ἐξ Ἡφαίστου, 4).67 The mention of Hephaestus prepares the ground for everything that follows. Only at the very end of the description, in paragraph 21, does the speaker return to his opening narrative frame, telling of Eurypylus’ fatal wound – and how (in a a closing sentence that gives way to a hanging future verb) Pyrrhus “will soon bury the body of Eurypylus” amid the other corpses of the Mysians (τάχα που κρύψει τὸν Εὐρυπύλου νεκρὸν).68 But the aspect of the picture that dominates – accounting for over three-quarters of the passage’s length – is the armour carried by Pyrrhus. The speaker introduces the subject at the beginning of the fifth paragraph:69 to it as a case study for artistic mimesis: the most important reference is VA 2.22 where, in discussing mimetic painting, Apollonius had compared Porus’ reliefs with those crafted by the Homeric Hephaestus, which combine the media of painting (graphikon) with bronze-casting. 65 Likewise, as Philostratus explains in the very first sentence, each son is said to resemble his respective fathers (πατρῴζειν, 1). 66 The specific details of Eurypylus’ armour – “which gives forth, like a rainbow, a light that varies with his position and movements” (παραλλάττουσι τὴν αὐγὴν ὅπῃ τε καὶ ὅπως κινοῖτο, ᾗ ἶρις) – is again taken from the precedent of the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines. In his description of a “Birth of Athena” tableau, the Elder Philostratus hints obliquely at the shield that Hephaestus had made for Achilles: Hephaestus was not able to win the goddess’s favour by making armour, we are told, since Athena sprung forth from Zeus fully armed; “for as many as are the colours of the rainbow, which alternates its light now from one way to an other, so many are the colours of her armour” (ὅσα γὰρ τῆς ἴριδος χρώματα παραλλαττούσης ἐς ἄλλοτε ἄλλο φῶς, τοσαῦτα καὶ τῶν ὅπλων, Im. 2.27.2; cf. also Her. 48.5). Other details are also lifted from models in the earlier Imagines, including the description of the river Xanthos “pressing his foot on the sources” (καὶ τὸν πόδα ἐπέχει ταῖς πηγαῖς, 2), imitating the Elder Philostratus’ evocation of the reclining Nile at Im. 1.5.2 (καὶ τὸν πόδα ἐπέχει ταῖς πηγαῖς). 67 The speaker does not state that his description will focus on the shield specifically, instead relying on a knowledge of the Homeric passage; only at the very end of the description are we told that the scenes were depicted ἐν τῷ σάκει (20). 68 The ring-compositional framing narrative consequently mirrors that of the described shield. In the same way that the depicted shield is circular (κύκλῳ, 20), its description ending ring-compositionally with the detail of the sea with which it begins (5, 20 – itself mirroring, of course, the ring-compositional form of the Homeric description of the circular shield), so too is the overarching composition of this descriptive tableau cyclical: it concludes by returning to the heroes with which it had started. 69 Although the description of the armour does not close with reference to Homer specifically, it perhaps plays on the widespread trope of figuring Homer as Ocean (cf. the collected sources in Williams 1978, 98–99). When, in the final evocation of the shield at paragraph 20, the speaker declares that “you must consider Ocean to be the boundary of the land that has been crafted

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θεωρῶν δέ τις τὰ ὅπλα λεῖπον εὑρήσει τῶν Ὁμήρου ἐκτυπωμάτων οὐδέν, ἀλλ᾿ ἀκριβῶς ἡ τέχνη δείκνυσι τἀκεῖθεν πάντα. If one looks at this armour he will find that none of the impressions of Homer has been missed out, but that the art [technē] accurately [akribōs] shows everything from there.

As the table in Appendix I demonstrates (p. 409), both the details and structure of Philostratus’ account take their lead from the Homeric prototype (which, for ease of reference, I reproduce in full as Appendix II, pp. 410–416). Where Homer had introduced the shield of Achilles within the poetic narrative frame of the Iliad, Philostratus frames it within a story about Achilles’ son. The generational remove is perhaps significant: just as Pyrrhus inherits his shield from his father (καὶ τὰ ὅπλα δὲ ἀμφοῖν πατρῷα, 4), so too is this description intensely aware of its own literary ancestry; Philostratus looks back not only to the ecphrastic models provided by the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus (the author’s purported grandfather), one might say, but also ultimately to those of Homer himself (the “father” of all Greek literature).70 Despite the narrative reframing, the speaker insists upon both the completeness and precision of the Homeric credentials (ἀκριβῶς ἡ τέχνη δείκνυσι τἀκεῖθεν πάντα): the trope of “accuracy” (akribeia) – elsewhere used as a term of art-historical critique, referring to the faithfulness with which art imitates nature71 – is here re-appropriated as a term of literary derivation, qualifying the proximity between this painting and the original shield (no less than between this description and its Homeric model). So how should we make sense of Philostratus’ imitation of Homer, as indeed his recourse to this Homeric passage specifically?72 Two important studies have drawn out the allusive fabric of the description. First, Rafael Gallé Cejudo has read the description in light of Imperial Greek rhetorical

on the shield” (Ὠκεανὸν δὲ νοεῖν χρὴ ὅρον εἶναι τεχνηθέντα τῆς ἐν τῷ σάκει γῆς), he seals it with a latent reference to the “sea” of Homeric verse: just as the Ocean had defined the limits of the shield, it is Homer who defines the perimeters of this evoked imitation. 70 On the metaliterary significance of father-son relationships in epic poetry – albeit from a Latin literary backdrop – the classic discussion is Hardie 1993a, 88–119: particularly relevant for our Philostratean passage, of course, is the Virgilian treatment of Pyrrhus at Aen. 2.469–558. 71 For the Younger Philostratus’ recourse to the adjective akribēs, see Im. 3.5 and 12.3 (used of paintings), as well as Im. 12.8 (now used of the “accuracy” of the speaker’s ecphrastic description); cf. Phil. Mai. Im. 1.16 (τά … ἠκριβωμένα) and 2.20.2 (τὸ ἀκριβοῦν). 72 Of course, this passage is not the only example to have recourse to Homer: the Imagines is peppered with Homeric allusions, and one other tableau also introduces Homer explicitly (Im. 8.4). Here, as elsewhere, the model comes in the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines, which mentions Homer frequently (cf. e.g. Webb 2015; Squire and Elsner 2017): examples include Im. 1.1 (mentioned three times), 1.3.1, 1.8.1, 1.26.1, 2.2.1, 2.7.1–2, 2.8.1, 2.8.6, 2.28.1, 2.33.2 and 2.34.1.

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thinking about periphrasis, explaining the different linguistic strategies that Philostratus employs in appropriating and adapting the Homeric model.73 Second, Clara Pasquariello (without reference to Gallé Cejudo’s earlier works) has offered an art historical commentary, again demonstrating how “Filostrato descrive lo scudo così come lo aveva rappresentato Omero, punto dopo punto”.74 Both scholars have in their different ways demonstrated how “accurately” (ἀκριβῶς) this painting/description is drawn from the Iliadic prototype, “missing out none of the impressions of Homer” (cf. λεῖπον εὑρήσει τῶν Ὁμήρου ἐκτυπωμάτων οὐδέν, 5). By contrast, what interests me in this chapter is the gesture of imitating Homer in the first place: not only does Philostratus associate his ecphrastic project with Homeric precedent, I want to suggest, he also adds his own characteristic medial spin, interrogating the respective power of words and images to “bring things the thing shown before the eyes”. Perhaps the first thing to notice about this homage to Homer is its repackaging to suit the conventions of Philostratean art criticism. The repeated addresses to the “boy” (ὦ παῖ: 6, 7, 20) construct a specific characterization of the narrator: while taking on the role of Homer, describing everything that follows, the speaker doubles up as a learned exegete within the dramatic scenario of the gallery. One of the distinctive features of Homer’s account is that it tells of Hephaestus actually making the shield: the crafting of the Homeric poetic account aligns with the actual manufacture of the object.75 Here, by contrast, we are dealing not with a narrative of making, but rather with an account of constructive viewing: we hear the speaker verbalizing – within the enacted drama of the gallery – what can purportedly be seen. This pictorial recalibration of Homer helps to explain some additional distinctive features. As with the other paintings in the imagined gallery (and indeed those that had been described in the earlier Imagines of the Elder Philostratus), every aspect of the image becomes an occasion for the

73 Cf. Gallé Cejudo 2001 (with earlier comments in idem 2000): “El pasaje de Filóstrato objeto de nuestro análisis es una paráfrasis sensu stricto del citado homérico” (24); compare also the author’s conclusions at pp. 121–139, comparing related periphrastic strategies in [Hes.] Sc. 138– 320, Quint. Smyrn. 5.6–101 and Nonnus D. 25.336–567. Gallé Cejudo’s primary concern is with the “relación de correspondencias”: he charts Philostratus’ various additions to, amplifications of and departures from Homer; allusions are discussed according to categories of “minimá tensión intertextual”, “nivel medio de tensión intertextual” and “maximá tensión intertextual”. 74 Pasquariello 2004, 112, with n. 112 – although I see no evidence to support the claim that “il quadro presenta due scene a narrazione continua” (cf. ibid. 110–111). There is also a brief discussion of the passage’s relationship to Homer in Cullhed 2014, 198–199. 75 Cf. above, n. 62.

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speaker’s dramatic inferring (ξυμβάλλεσθαι, 12) and interpreting (e.g. ἀφερμηνευθῆναι, 7; ἀφερμηνεῦσαι, 17) – for tackling the “riddles” of the picture (e.g. τοῦ δημιουργοῦ αἰνιξαμένου, 7; αἰνίττεται, 10), and giving an accurate reading of their significance (e.g. ἐξακριβώσομαι, 17). The speaker liberally sprinkes his account with questions to the boy.76 As he proceeds through the painting, he likewise draws attention to many of the same tropes commented upon elsewhere in the Imagines (ultimately following the model of the Elder Philostratus): an interest in the “look, “eye” and gaze of the figures,77 for example, the response of “wonder”,78 the naturalistic lifelikeness

76 There are ten questions addressed to the boy in total – two in paragraph 7 (ποτέραν οὖν προτέραν ἀφερμηνευθῆναί σοι βούλει; ἢ τὸ τῶν λαμπάδων φῶς καὶ τὸ τοῦ ὑμεναίου μέλος καὶ ὁ τῶν αὐλῶν ἦχος καὶ ἡ τῆς κιθάρας κροῦσις καὶ ὁ τῶν ὀρχουμένων ῥυθμὸς ἐς αὑτά σε ἄγει;), and one each in paragraphs 8 (τίς δ᾿ ἡ δίκη;), 9 (ποῖ δὴ τὸ μάχιμον αὐτοῖς;), 10 (ἢ οὐ προσβάλλει σε τὸ λιτὸν καὶ αὐτοφυὲς τῆς μούσης καὶ ἀτεχνῶς ὄρειον;), 11 (τοὺς δὲ ἐν αὐτοῖς ἀναστρεφομένους καὶ τὴν πεφοινιγμένην λύθρῳ δαίμονα αὐτήν τε καὶ τὴν ἐσθῆτα τί ἐροῦμεν;), 14 (τὰ δὲ γύναια τί φῄς; ἆρ᾿ οὐκ ἐπτοῆσθαί σοι δοκεῖ καὶ διακελεύεσθαι ἀλλήλοις συχνὰ μάττειν τῶν ἀλφίτων δεῖπνον εἶναι τοῖς ἐρίθοις;), 15 (τί δ᾿ ἂν εἴποις περὶ τῶν τρυγώντων;), 17 (… πῶς οὐκ ἐναργείας πρόσω;) and 18 (τίς δ᾿ ἡ τέχνη;). 77 Cf. e.g. τάς τε τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν βολάς (4); τὸ ὄμμα (4); φοβεροὶ … τοῦ βλέμματος (11); ἐν ὄψει (13); ὁρῶν (21). The importance of the eyes emerges as a theme in the third paragraph of the Younger Philostratus’ proem (itself developing a theme of Phil. Mai. Im. Praef. 2): χρὴ γὰρ τὸν ὀρθῶς προστατεύσοντα τῆς τέχνης φύσιν τε ἀνθρωπείαν εὖ διεσκέφθαι καὶ ἱκανὸν εἶναι γνωματεῦσαι ἠθῶν ξύμβολα καὶ σιωπώντων καὶ τί μὲν ἐν παρειῶν καταστάσει, τί δὲ ἐν ὀφθαλμῶν κράσει, τί δὲ ἐν ὀφρύων ἤθει κεῖται καὶ ξυνελόντι εἰπεῖν, ὁπόσα ἐς γνώμην τείνει (“For the person who is a true master of his art [technē] must have considered human nature properly; he must be able to discern the signs of characters even when they are silent, to discern what is revealed in the state of the cheeks, what in the expression of the eye, what in the character of the eyebrows – and briefly put – whatever has to do with mind”). 78 In paragraph 17, the speaker tells the boy about the things at which he should not be marvelling (οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσειας …) – a recurrent motif in the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines. At the same time, the response of wonder is attributed not only to the boy who looks at the painting, but also to the figures depicted within it – as with the women who marvel at the marriage procession in the city of peace (θαυμάζοντα, 7), or the wonder aroused by the acrobats in the scene of dancing (θαῦμα, 19). Here, as elsewhere, the trope alludes to an aspect of the Homeric original: as we have said, Homer has Hephaestus introduce the armour as something that will inspire wonder among those who look at it (οἷά τις αὖτε | ἀνθρώπων πολέων θαυμάσσεται, ὅς κεν ἴδηται, vv. 466–467); if Homer describes the very manufacture of the shield as a marvel (vv. 548–549), moreover, he likewise ascribes the response to figures within the scenes (as with the women watching the marriage procession at v. 496).

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of the various protagonists,79 a concern with colour,80 the interpretation of scale,81 etc. But nothing here is quite as it first appears. Again and again, the speaker qualifies his observations, emphasizing that they relate to what he and the boy “seem” to see, or else couching them as unsubstantiated personal opinions.82 Throughout the passage, our narrator makes out that his is a free and independent act of interpretation; likewise, the description purportedly caters to the particular interests of the boy – his desire, for example, to learn more about the stars in paragraph 5, or to know about the clothing of the dancers in paragraph 18. Yet Philostratus expects his readers – reading the text from outside of its representational frame, and thereby “watching” the dramatic scenario at second remove – to see through the rhetoric. After all, the details of the description do not amount to impromptu observations, but are carefully drawn from Homeric precedent: so it is, for instance, that just as the gloss about the number of dogs in paragraph 17 (οἱ δὲ κύνες, ἐννέα δ᾿ οἶμαι οὗτοι) is

79 Nowhere more so than in the described scene of combat in paragraph 11. Varying the Homeric description of men who “like living mortals joined in and fought” (ὡμίλεον δ᾽ ὥς τε ζωοὶ βροτοὶ ἠδ᾽ ἐμάχοντο, v. 539), the speaker declares that the warriors look so terrifying that they “seem not to differ at all from living men in the assults of battle” (… ὡς οὐδὲν διαλλάττειν ἐμοὶ ζώντων ἐν ταῖς ὁρμαῖς δοκοῦσιν). On the meaning and critical reception of the Homeric detail, cf. Cullhed 2014, 196–199. 80 E.g. χρόαν (5); χρόας (17). Like the Homeric passage, which tells of how attributes in bronze, tin, silver and gold are incorporated within the metallic shield (cf. e.g. vv. 474–475, 480, 507, 517, 549, 562, 563, 564, 577, 598 with Squire 2013a, 159–60), Philostratus’ description mentions all manner of coloured metals: χρυσίον (8); χρυσῷ (9); χρυσὸν (12); ἄργυρος (15); χρυσῆ (15); ἐν τῷ καττιτέρῳ (15); τὸ … κυανὸν (15); χρυσοῦ καὶ καττιτέρου (17); χρυσᾶς … χρυσᾶς (18); ἀργυρῶν (18). But the allusions also point to a revealing difference. In the Homeric account, the references collapse any distinction between represented referents and representing medium (since the metals relate to features within the depicted scenes as well as to the material object in which those scenes are depicted). In Philostratus’ tableau, by contrast, the same metallic attributes refer to painted properties of the polychrome picture: noting the mise en abyme of the Homeric model, and subjecting it to his own dizzying spin, Philostratus now has these aspects pertain to the described qualities of the depicted shield within a painting derived from the Homeric ecphrasis … 81 Note in particular how, in paragraph 9, Philostratus draws attention to both the colour and relative scale of Ares and Athena in relation to the figures surrounding them (paraphrasing vv. 516–519 of the Homeric account). Philostratus proceeds to declare “what the technē says” (τουτὶ γάρ, μοι δοκεῖν, ἡ τέχνη φησὶ …), knowing all the while that the purported visual detail is itself drawn from the Homeric verbal account. 82 For instances of the qualifying οἶμαι (“I think”), see paragraphs 5, 15, 16, 17, 18. Verbs of “seeming” recur throughout – in paragraphs 6 (μοι δοκεῖς), 8 (δοκεῖν ἐμοί), 9 (μοι δοκεῖν), 10 (μοι δοκεῖν), 11 (ἐμοὶ … δοκοῦσιν), 12 (δοκεῖ – if the emendation is correct), 14 (σοι δοκεῖ), 16 (δοκεῖν), 17 (δοκεῖ … δοκῶν) and 19 (μοι σαφῶς … δοκοῦσιν).

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drawn from v. 578 of the Iliadic passage, so too does the aside about the “thrice-ploughed” land in paragraph 12 (τρίπολος οἶμαί τις, εἴ τι χρὴ τῷ τῶν ἀροτήρων ξυμβάλλεσθαι πλήθει) elaborate the details of vv. 541–542.83 The same holds true on the level of structure. Despite the promise of breaking order – as with the question in paragraph 7, asking whether first to approach the city at war or the one at peace – the temporal succession follows Homer’s own sequential logic.84 All of this has a programmatic significance: if the object that Homer had evoked serves as the subject of the painting, so too does the Homeric description double up as a model for Philostratus’ own spoken and written project, rendering the purported visual stimulus back into verbal exegetic response. This recession of replicative levels goes hand in hand with a careful interweaving of visual and verbal media. What we have here is a text written after an oral speech – one that is delivered in front of a purported painting drawn from Homer’s description (that in turn evokes the images that Hephaestus crafts on the shield). But just as Philostratus delights in collapsing the various layers of representation, so too does he probe the respective limits of words and images: the result is something that combines sights and sounds, and in a knowingly playful way. Right from the outset, the passage assumes the visual presence of the painting, complete with its depicted shield. Just as the speaker declares the picture to be a sight (θέα, 2), so he introduces the shield as something for the

83 Numerous other details might be mentioned. One thinks, for instance, of the two talents of gold mentioned in the law-court scene of paragraph 8: the speaker claims not to know the meaning here (οὐκ οἶδ᾿ ἐφ᾿ ὅτῳ), but then hits upon a possible subjective explanation (ἤ, νὴ Δί᾿, εἰκάσαι χρή …), itself drawn from vv. 507–508 of the Homeric account. When Philostratus ends the same paragraph with the detail about the law-court scene standing “midway between war and peace in a city that is not at war” (ταυτὶ μὲν οὖν σοι μέση τις πολέμου καὶ εἰρήνης ἐν οὐ πολεμουμένῃ πόλει κατάστασις), he introduces a similar game, using the motif to segue – both spatially and temporally – into the following scene of the city at war. A related example comes in the tenth paragraph, when Philostratus refers to the “self-made … artlessly highland” (αὐτοφυές … καὶ ἀτεχνῶς ὄρειον) music of the shepherds’ pipes: the detail elaborates a reference at v. 526, where Homer tells of two shepherds “delighting in the pipe” (τέρπομενοι σύριγξι); here, though, the joke lies in suggesting that the music arises from the shepherds within the picture, rather than deriving from Homer’s spoken evocation of the shield’s imagery; at the same time, the very artistry of the speaker’s verbal description undermines the very denial of artistry (ἀτεχνῶς) in the music that is purportedly mediated by the picture. 84 When at the beginning of paragraph 14, for example, the speaker comments that “the oak tree stands here not at the inappropriate time – nor without reason [logos]” (ἡ δὲ δρῦς οὐκ ἀκαίρως ἐνταῦθα οὐδ᾿ ἔξω λόγου), he alludes not just to the supposed spatial juxtapositions within the picture, but also to the temporal progression of his account, itself descended from the literal “word” [logos] of Homer.

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boy visually to consider (θεωρῶν, 5) – an object that makes materially manifest the details of the Homeric original (δείκνυσι, 5). The actual presence of the image – at least for the boy addressed – is underscored by the recurrent use of deictic words, each one referring to “this” or “that” aspect of the picture. As the narrator proceeds through the picture, he piles up the exhortations to look (ἰδού: 8, 12, 21), addressing the boy in the second person about what he “sees” (ὁρᾷς).85 Yet the irony, of course, is that the more the speaker insists on the iconic presence of the scenes, the more his description disappears behind textual precedent. Both literally and metaphorically, the sights of the picture become occasions for speech – for verbal declarations about what can be seen, crafted from citations of the Homeric text.86 In this sense, the speaker turns on the problematic of finding words for images, no less than finding images for words (one thinks again of the Simonidean analogy between painting as “silent poetry” and poetry as “speaking painting”): the whole passage addresses the question, as paragraph 9 programmatically puts it, of “what the art [technē] says” (ἡ τέχνη φησί;). But the Philostratean passage is not only a description of sights for seeing. It also incorporates all manner of sounds – stimuli that can be heard (or at least almost heard) by the imagined onlooker of the painting. In incorporating so many audible elements, Philostratus imitates an aspect of the Homeric original: as modern critics have emphasized, part of the “wonder” of Homer’s synaesthetic shield lies in its appeal to the ears and eyes at once;87 ancient readers 85 The use of the prescriptive “you see …” (ὁρᾷς) recurs throughout the description – at paragraphs 3, 5, 6 (twice), 7 (twice), 8 (twice), 9, 10 (twice), 11, 13, 14, 17 and 19; cf. also e.g. ἰδεῖν (10), θεωρῶν (5), θεώμεθα (7). 86 For spoken responses, cf. e.g. ἡ τέχνη φησί … (9), τί ἐροῦμεν; (11), τί φῄς; (14), τί δ᾿ ἂν εἴποις … (15). In each case, the trope of speaking for the picture mirrors the represented speech within the picture – e.g. μόνον οὐκ ἐκβοῶντα (7), νέμοντας τὴν βοήν (8), προσᾴδειν (16). On one occasion, in the context of the ambush scene in paragraph 10, we are even said to see how spoken word of events has reached the depicted men in ambush (φήμη δὴ τῶν πραχθέντων ἐς τοὺς λοχῶντας ἐλθοῦσα). The same motif of speech recurs elsewhere, and is spun in a variety of ways: consider, for example, how the tableau talks of things that are said not to be in need of someone speaking of them (e.g. οὐδὲ φράζοντος οἶμαι δεήσει τινός, 5), or how the speaker sometimes refrains from verbal explication (e.g. παρίημι λέγειν, 7 – adding that the “creator” has reported the aspect “more wisely”). Other details are said to be beyond description – like the lions and bulls in paragraph 17, to which nobody would seem able to do interpretive justice (οὐδ᾿ ἂν ἀφερμηνεῦσαί μοί τις ἐπαξίως δοκεῖ …). 87 For discussion, see especially Männlein-Robert 2007, 13–17 and Squire 2013a, esp. 161 (with further bibliography). The Homeric description evokes various sounds: the music of flutes, lyres and pipes (vv. 493–495, 525–526, 569); a bridal song (v. 493), cheering (v. 502) and the proclamation of loud-voiced heralds (v. 505); and the tumult of cattle (vv. 530–531), the lowing of cows (vv. 575, 580), the barking of dogs (v. 586) and a babbling river (v. 576). Within the Homeric account of the imagery, we even hear of pictorial figures that recite poems: sat amidst a group

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puzzled over such details, as when one scholiast comments, à propos its “sounding” instruments, that the shield depicts the figures as though they were playing music.88 Philostratus draws out the sonorous Homeric resonances, declaring that the picture echoes with various noises:89 one thinks of the wedding hymn, flutes and lyre of paragraph 7; the shouts of the two parties in the law-court scene of paragraph 8 (which the heralds are now said to “return to silence”); the music of the shepherds in paragraph 10; the lyrical song of the boy in paragraph 16; and the lowing of cattle, barking of the dogs and babbling of the river in paragraph 17.90 If each of these aural elements takes its inspiration from Homer, however, the speaker nonetheless underscores their fictitious semblance. Quite apart from the numerous verbs of “seeming” and “appearing” – each one emphasizing the make-believe involved – the passage makes a problem of whether or not its seen sounds can actually be heard. Consider, for example, the women watching the wedding procession in paragraph 7, who “all but shout for joy” (τὰ γύναια … μόνον οὐκ ἐκβοῶντα ὑπὸ χαρμονῆς). Alternatively, we might note the question asked of the pipe-playing shepherds in paragraph 10 (“does the simple … music not reach you?”, οὐ προσβάλλει σε τὸ λιτὸν … τῆς μούσης …;):91 within the description, which in turn speaks for the sight (via its citations of the Homeric passage), Philostratus poses questions about the respective limits of seeing and hearing.

of pastoral dancers, within a scene of huge programmatic importance to Alexandrian poets, a boy was said to be shown “making delightful music with a clear-toned lyre, singing the Linos song with his delicate voice” (vv. 569–571). No less remarkable is the Homeric evocation of an absence of noise: we hear of (seeing) a king who stands “in silence” among those harvesting his estate (βασιλεὺς δ’ ἐν τοῖσι σιωπῇ, v. 556). On the subsequent classical history of the trope, cf. Laird 1993. 88 Cf. Schol. bT ad Il. 18.495c (= Erbse 1969–1988, 4.535): the claim of noise, the scholiast declares, rests not on “any sound being achieved”, but on the fact that “the images were [shown] as if playing flutes and playing lyres” (οὐχ ὡς ἀποτελουμένου ἤχου τινός, ἀλλ᾽ οἷον τὰ εἴδωλα ὡς αὐλοῦντα καὶ κιθαρίζοντα ἦν). Still more intriguing is Eustath. ad Il. 18.493 (van der Valk 1971–1987, 4. 232): Eustathius comments of the sounds at vv. 495, 498, 502, 571 and 575 that “in all these cases no voice was heard …, but the accurate likeness of the living figures made the voice apparent through imagination” (ἐν πᾶσι γὰρ τούτοις οὐ φωνὴ ἐξηκούετο …, ἀλλ᾽ εἰκασμῷ ἐνέφαινε φωνὴν ἡ τῶν ζῴων ἀκριβὴς ἐμφέρεια). 89 The confluence of sight and sound has been well treated in the context of the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines, but yet to receive sustained treatment in the work of the Younger Philostratus: cf. e.g. e.g. Schönberger and Kalinka 1968, 49–51; Anderson 1986, 262–265; Gallé Cejudo 1997–1998; Manieri 1999; Leach 2000, 248–250; Webb 2006, esp. 121. 90 For a “recursos ‘sinestésicos’”, cf. also Gallé Cejudo 2001, 131–132. 91 Both the subject and phrasing (οὐ προσβάλλει σε) recall the model of the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines: cf. e.g. Im. 1.2.5, where the speaker asks the boy, “does it not reach you – the castanets, the noise with its flutes and the disorderly singing?” (ἢ οὐ προσβάλλει σε κρόταλα

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A particularly revealing example comes in paragraph 17, describing one of the pastoral scenes that make up the latter part of the Homeric description. Philostratus introduces the motif as follows:92 εἰ δὲ καὶ τὴν ἀγέλην ἐννοήσειας τῶν βοῶν, αἳ δὴ πρὸς τὴν νομὴν ἵενται ἑπομένων αὐταῖς τῶν νομέων, τῆς μὲν χρόας οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσειας, εἰ καὶ χρυσοῦ καὶ καττιτέρου πᾶσα, τὸ δὲ καὶ μυκωμένων ὥσπερ ἀκούειν ἐν τῇ γραφῇ καὶ τὸν ποταμὸν κελάδοντα εἶναι δοκεῖν, παρ᾿ ὃν αἱ βόες, πῶς οὐκ ἐναργείας πρόσω; And if you should also notice the herd of cattle which press forward to their pasture with the herdsmen following them, you might not marvel at the colour (even if the whole herd is made of gold and tin), but also at the fact that it’s as if you hear the cows mooing in the painting/description (graphē), and that the river beside the cows seems to be making a splashing sound – is this not the height of vividness (enargeia)?

As ever, there is Homeric precedent for the Philostratean detail. In incorporating the suggestion of sound – on the one hand the lowing cattle, on the other the apparent splashing of the river – the passage offers a carefully varied imitation of the original Iliadic model. After all, it was Homer who had suggested the colour of the cows (since they are explicitly forged from gold and tin), as well as the accompanying sounds (vv. 573–576): ἐν δ᾽ ἀγέλην ποίησε βοῶν ὀρθοκραιράων· αἳ δὲ βόες χρυσοῖο τετεύχατο κασσιτέρου τε, μυκηθμῷ δ᾽ ἀπὸ κόπρου ἐπεσσεύοντο νομόνδὲ πὰρ ποταμὸν κελάδοντα, παρὰ ῥαδαλὸν δονακῆα. On it he also made a herd of straight-horned cattle. The cattle were forged of gold and of tin, and with lowing they rushed from the farmyard to the pasture beside the splashing river, beside the thicket of reeds.

καὶ θροῦς ἔναυλος καὶ ᾠδὴ ἄτακτος;). Other details in the passage might be compared, not least the law-court scene of paragraph 8: here the adherents of each side within the dispute are said to be “raising their voices” (νέμοντας τὴν βοήν), even while the presence of heralds “restores them to silence” (ἀλλ᾿ ἥ γε τῶν κηρύκων παρουσία … εἰς τὸ ἡσυχαῖον ἄγει). All this, of course, within a spoken description that is itself explicitly catering to the ears as well as to the eyes: as the speaker makes clear in paragraph 6, everything that follows is intended as a response to what the boy seemingly desires to hear about (ἀλλά μοι δοκεῖς … ποθεῖν ἀκοῦσαι) … 92 Although the author’s primary reference here is to the Homeric model, the passage might again remind us of scenes in the Elder Philostratus’ Imagines. Particularly important is Im. 1.12.5, in which the Elder Philostratus brings together a number of landscape scenes that allude to the Homeric ecphrasis: καὶ ποίμναις ἐντεύξῃ προχωρῶν καὶ μυκωμένων ἀκούσῃ βοῶν καὶ συρίγγων βοὴ περιηχήσει σε (“And as you proceed you will light upon flocks and will hear mooing cows and the cry of pipes will surround you …”).

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Philostratus at once imitates and changes the Homeric prototype: he quotes the phrase ποταμὸν κελάδοντα (albeit within a different syntactical construction), and transforms Homer’s “lowing” (μυκηθμῷ) into a participle (μυκωμένων).93 But Philostratus is also at pains to emphasize the “as if” involved: when it comes to the onomatopoeic mooing, after all, it is as though one can hear the sound (τὸ δὲ καὶ μυκωμένων ὥσπερ ἀκούειν), just as the river is said to seem to be splashing (ποταμὸν κελάδοντα εἶναι δοκεῖν). Where the Homeric description states the sounds in the picture, Philostratus draws out their representational semblance; indeed, in the detail that follows, Homer’s second reference to an ox “mightily mooing” (μακρὰ μεμυκώς, v. 580) is replaced by one that seems to moo (μεμυκέναι δοκῶν). These games of voice, vision and fiction lead us squarely back to late-antique thinking about ecphrasis, and above all to discussions in the Progymnasmata. In one sense, the passage brings together the different subjects of ecphrasis that those handbooks introduce: it incorporates “deeds” (pragmata), “persons” (prosōpa), “places” (topoi), “times” (chronoi) and “opportunities” (kairoi). But the passage also does something else besides. By talking about the prospect of sounds within the picture, Philostratus inverts standard rhetorical definitions of the trope: just as his verbal description promises to grant access to the visual picture that the audience is instructed to “see”, so the visual fabric of the described painting promises to speak and sound. As we have said, the Progymnasmata recurrently describe ecphrasis as something which “brings the subject shown before the eyes with visual vividness”. However, if ecphrasis is an art of “almost [σχεδόν] seeing through hearing” (in Hermogenes’ words), so that it “all but [μονονού] makes the audience into spectators” (as Nikolaus puts it),94 Philostratus delivers an ecphrasis in reverse gear: while evoking a sight for seeing, he describes a visual scene that almost renders its subjects audible,

93 Another conceit might perhaps be at work here. Quite apart from the pun on graphē (the suggestion that the sounds belong not to the shield – as they do in Homer – but to the painting/description: cf. below pp. 397–398), the very idea of “hearing” the mooing is reflected in the word μυκᾶσθαι. The onomatopoeia receives explicit comment in the first book of Philodemus’ On Poems, introducing it as an example of verbs that “move the person hearing it, since their similarity to the experience of the ears makes them seem to be correct” (106.10–14: see Janko 2000, 315, n. 1 listing parallels, and cf. Squire 2010a, 611–612 in the context of epigrams on Myron’s cow). One scholiast on the Homeric passage seems also to have flagged the onomatopoeia explicitly, remarking of μυκηθμῷ that Homer, “contrary to expectation, even imitated the sound” (Schol. bT ad Il. 18.575, = Erbse 1969–1988, 4.559: παραδόξως καὶ τὴν φωνὴν ἐμιμήσατο). 94 Cf. above, pp. 376–377.

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so that the purported picture is said all but to turn its spectators into listeners.95 There can be no doubt, I think, that Philostratus has this rhetorical thinking in his sights. Indeed, his recourse to the language of enargeia (visual “vividness”) in the passage cited above, from paragraph 17, can only be understood in that light. As we have said, enargeia was heralded as the defining quality of ecphrasis, and all the Progymnasmata treat the trope in relation to that term. When evoking the landscape of paragraph 17, however, Philostratus ascribes enargeia not just to his ecphrastic description, or indeed to the Homeric ecphrasis from which it descends, but also to the painting described. Asking whether the prospect of hearing the mooing cattle and splashing river is “not the height of enargeia” (πῶς οὐκ ἐναργείας πρόσω;), Philostratus turns ecphrasis inside out: the defining quality of make-believe “seeing through hearing” is reconfigured to the tune of fictitious “hearing through seeing”.96 So what exactly does this tableau refer to? Is it a picture (derived from the text of Homer)? Or a text (derived from a response to a picture)? Philostratus delights in the multimedial ambiguities. This helps to explain his many puns on the verb graphein and noun graphē, repeated on four occasions in the passage, each time leaving it unclear whether we are dealing with an art of “drawing” or “writing”:97 the graphē before us collapses drawn/written distinctions, referring at once to the painting in the gallery, the Homeric text from which it derives, and of course to the writing/sketch by Philostratus himself. The use of the word technē can perhaps be understood in similar light.98 Philo-

95 For a related game in Lucian’s Icaromenippus (likewise a second-degree description of the Homeric shield ecphrasis), see Squire 2011, 330–331 on e.g. Icar. 16–17; cf. Maffei 1994, li–lii. 96 One might also note the attestation of “clarity” in paragraph 19 (μοι σαφῶς … δοκοῦσιν), as well as the recurrent language of “manifestation” (δήλη, 5; δηλώσασα, 9; δήλωσιν, 15; ἐπιδηλούντων, 19): both words might be thought to echo rhetorical discussions of ecphrasis in the Progymnasmata. For the significance of the reference to enargeia here (albeit without comment on the aural context), cf. Manieri 1998, 171 (comparing Luc, De salt. 62–64) and Gallé Cejudo 2001, 107–108, 130–131. As I have argued elsewhere (Squire 2013b, 108; cf. Manieri 1998, 169–171), similar games can also be found in the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus, who puns on the ecphrastic language of both saphēneia (Praef. 5, 2.3.2) and enargeia (τὸ ἐναργὲς τῆς τέχνης, 2.14.2; ἐναργεῖς, 1.16.2; ὁ μὲν δὴ λόγος τῆς γραφῆς οὗτος, τὸ δὲ ἐναργές …, 2.13.2); for related play in ecphrastic epigram, see e.g. Squire 2010b, 81–82 on APl. 310. 97 φησὶ δὲ καὶ ἡ γραφὴ ταῦτα (1); τοὐν … πεδίον … γέγραπται δὲ οὐ μορμύρων ἀφρῷ (2); τὴν [γὴν] δ᾿ αἱ πόλεις καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῇ γῆν γράφουσι (5); τὸ δὲ καὶ μυκωμένων ὥσπερ ἀκούειν ἐν τῇ γραφῇ καὶ τὸν ποταμὸν κελάδοντα εἶναι δοκεῖν (17). 98 Cf. ἀλλ᾿ ἀκριβῶς ἡ τέχνη δείκνυσι τἀκεῖθεν πάντα (5); τουτὶ γάρ, μοι δοκεῖν, ἡ τέχνη φησί … (9); ἢ οὐ προσβάλλει σε τὸ λιτὸν καὶ αὐτοφυὲς τῆς μούσης καὶ ἀτεχνῶς ὄρειον; (10); τὸ δὲ τῆς καπέτου κυανὸν ἐτεχνήθη οἶμαι τῷ δημιουργῷ … (15); τίς δ᾿ ἡ τέχνη; (18); Ὠκεανὸν δὲ νοεῖν χρὴ ὅρον εἶναι τεχνηθέντα … (20).

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stratus is well aware that the word can refer to both literary and painterly craftsmanship, and that Homer was particularly celebrated for his technē.99 Each reference to “art” can consequently refer to the painting, to the handiwork of the Homeric artistic/poetic maker (dēmiourgos),100 and indeed to Philostratus’ own descriptive craftsmanship: the question asked in paragraph 18 – “what is the technē?” (τίς δ᾿ ἡ τέχνη;) – is left poignantly hanging. Perhaps the most important aspect in all this is the recourse to the shield of Achilles in the first place. In recent years there has been much debate about whether or not the passage would have been recognized as an ecphrasis, at least in the sense defined by the Progymnasmata.101 But our passage leaves little room to doubt: by turning to the Homeric archaeology of the trope, Philostratus forges an analogy between the most canonical work of Greek literature and his own ecphrastic project in the Imagines. The observation returns us to the trope of “seeing”, as well as to ancient thinking about enargeia. In one sense, the fundamental conceit here lies in the inaccessibility of the purported painting: unlike the imagined boy in the gallery, directed to look upon different parts of the picture, the reading audience has only the text of the speaker’s description to go on. Yet through the very act of evocation – that is, by summoning up figurative images themselves de-

99 The idea of Homer as a “a poet who loves technē” (ποιητὴς φιλότεχνος) dates back at least to Aristarchus in second-century BC Alexandria: cf. Schenkeveld 1970, esp. 163–164, 175–176; Porter 1992: 74–75. For the phrase, see also schol. A on Il. 1.8–9 (Erbse 1969–1988, 1.11) and on 2.681 (ibid. 1.322), and schol. T on Il. 11.102 (ibid. 3.144–145). 100 There are three references to a dēmiourgos in our passage: ὑπὸ τοῦ δημιουργοῦ (5); σοφώτερον αὐτὰ τοῦ δημιουργοῦ αἰνιξαμένου (7); ἐτεχνήθη … τῷ δημιουργῷ (15). In each case, the word can refer to the painter of the picture, to the poet of the Iliadic description from which the painting derives, and to the original divine “creator” of the shield (namely, the god Hephaestus). The word has an additional significance, alluding as it does to allegorical traditions of interpreting the shield description (cf. Buffière 1956, 155–168; Hardie 1985; Porter 1992, esp. 91–103): as dēmiourgos, Homer is here painted not just as poetic craftsman, but also as prototypical creator – sketching in his shield description, as Heraclitus’ Homeric Problems puts it, “the origin of the universe in a grand creative idea” (μεγάλῃ καὶ κοσμοτόκῳ διανοίᾳ τὴν τῶν ὅλων … γένεσιν, Quaest. Hom. 43.1). 101 See in particular Webb 1992, 38–39, Webb 1999, esp. 7–9 and Webb 2009: of all Progymasmata-authors, Webb notes, Theon alone introduces the episode from Iliad 18 as an example of ecphrasis (cf. Prog. 119.27–30 = Patillon and Bolognesi 1997, 69); even here, however, Theon’s recourse to the Homeric hoplopoiia “could hardly be further from treating it as a description of an ‘objet d’art’, or even as a work of poetry”, but “simply lists the passage alongside other accounts of how military equipment and machines were made” (Webb 2009, 70). Although modern critics have often assumed that ancient readers would not have referred to the Homeric shield passage as an example of ecphrasis (e.g. Francis 2009, 8 n. 22), some scholiasts patently did (e.g. schol. T on Il. 18.610 = Erbse 1969–1988, 4.570).

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rived from Homer’s poem – Philostratus probes a different register of (in)sight. We might not be able to view the physical painting. But Philostratus exploits his Homeric pretext to hint at a different level of perception – an idea of intellectual apprehension, consideration and understanding:102 this purported eikōn, in short, itself gives rise to imaginary conjecture (εἰκάσαι, 8). Nowhere is the point clearer than in the description’s nineteenth paragraph. Here, towards the end of his description of the shield, Philostratus evokes the circling motions of a dance, relating it to the work of a potter at his wheel. The metaphor derives from the Homeric description of the same scene, telling how the dancers “would run in circles with their compliant and very nimble feet, just as when a potter sitting by a wheel fitted between his hands makes trial of whether it would run smooth” (οἳ δ᾽ ὁτὲ μὲν θρέξασκον ἐπισταμένοισι πόδεσσιν | ῥεῖα μάλ᾽, ὡς ὅτε τις τροχὸν ἄρμενον ἐν παλάμῃσιν | ἑζόμενος κεραμεὺς πειρήσεται, αἴ κε θέησιν, vv. 599–601). Like Homer, Philostatus turns to a figurative image of material production, describing what the scene depicted on the manufactured shield looks like. At the same time, he also reconfigures the image, telling the boy not about what he physically sees, but rather what he “sees in his mind” (ὁρᾷς νοήσει):103 ἀλλ᾿ ἐν κύκλῳ μὲν ἰόντων, τοῦτ᾿ ἐκεῖνο, τροχοῦ περιδίνησιν ὁρᾷς νοήσει κεραμέως ἔργον τινός, εἴ πη δυσκόλως ἢ μὴ τοῦ περιθεῖν ἔχοι, πειρῶντος. But as they move in a circle – this here – you see in your mind the whirling of a wheel, the work of a potter who tries his wheel to see whether it turns with difficulty or not.

Literal sight here converges with literary imagination (itself stemming from the creative vision of Homer’s original poetic description): the simile that Homer introduces is turned not into a physical motif in the imagined painting, but rather something beyond material expression, existing in the subjective consciousness of the purported onlooker.104 A series of multiplex “forgings” ensues, encompassing the physical reliefs that Hephaestus crafts onto the shield, the ecphrastic impressions of those scenes by Homer, the visions of the imag-

102 The point comes to the fore in the proliferation of words not just about sight, but also about mental perception: e.g. θεωρῶν (5); πεύσῃ (5); θεώμεθα (7); ἀρκεῖ γάρ σοι … νοεῖν (15); ξυνίης (16); εἰ δὲ … ἐννοήσειας (17); νόει (17); νοεῖν χρή (20). 103 For brief discussion, see Gallé Cejudo 2000, 413–414. 104 The interplay of sight and insight – as indeed of poetry and picture – brilliantly acts out the sentiment of the proem (cf. above, pp. 375–377): “for anyone who looks at the matter, art [technē] will be discovered also to have a certain kinship with poetry and that a certain sort of cognitive impression [phantasia] is common to both” (σκοποῦντι δὲ καὶ ξυγγένειάν τινα πρὸς ποιητικὴν ἔχειν ἡ τέχνη εὑρίσκεται καὶ κοινή τις ἀμφοῖν εἶναι φαντασία, Praef. 6).

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ined painting, and the evocation of the speaker (as represented by the text of the Imagines). Philostratus anticipates the point in his own talk of “impressions” (τὰ ἐκτυπώματα), both when he begins his description of the armour description (θεωρῶν δέ τις τὰ ὅπλα λεῖπον εὑρήσει τῶν Ὁμήρου ἐκτυπωμάτων οὐδέν …, 5), and when he concludes it (ἱκανῶς ἔχεις τῶν ἐκτυπωμάτων, 20). On one level, the verb ἐκτυπόω refers to the artistic act of working in relief – to a metalworker “striking” or “smiting” his material. On another, though, the verb also works metaphorically, referring to the act of making of figurative impressions – that is, of “forging” not only a physical object, but also an image in the mind (phantasia).105 Once again, words and images coalesce, so that the “impressions” encapsulated in the shield, Homeric prototypical description, picture and ecphrasis seep out beyond their representational frame: as we read the text, and consider its image/description, the reader forms his own intellectual impressions in his mind’s eye …

Conclusion: Seeing through hearing and hearing through seeing What might my discussion of “Pyrrhus or the Mysians” add to a volume on the “the gaze, vision, and visuality in ancient Greek literature”? The passage, I have argued, only makes sense against the backdrop of rhetorical thinking about ecphrastic vision, and above all of critical responses to the enargeia of Homeric poetry. Ancient scholiasts emphasized that visual element, commenting on how readers not only hear of events in the Iliad and Odyssey, but also (seem to) see them; so “visual” is Homer’s poetry, indeed, that it was sometimes said to depict things “even more vividly [enargesteron] than in a painting”.106 By engaging with this critical trope in the context of an actual painting, the

105 On the philosophical thinking – above all in relation to sculpted plasmata – see Webb 2009, 168–169 and cf. Männlein-Robert 2007, 90–92 on Anth. Pal. 9.713–742. The same pun recurs in Callistr. 5.5, when the speaker declares that he has “forged” his descriptive image of Narcissus after the material statue. In our case, the final reference to having enough “of the impressions” (ἱκανῶς ἔχεις τῶν ἐκτυπωμάτων, 20) proves particularly revealing: here, the speaker layers his own “impressions” over those forged by the artist of the painting, the Homeric poet and the god Hephaestus who was ultimately responsible for the metal-work. 106 I refer here to a scholion on the Homeric description of Ajax’s laboured breathing in Iliad 16, which is “praised for being even more vivid than a painting” (Schol. T. ad Il. 16.107–111 = Erbse 1969–1988, 4.187: ἐπαινεῖται δὲ ὁ τόπος ὡς καὶ ζωγραφίας ἐναργέστερον ἔχων); cf. above, pp. 357–365.

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Younger Philostratus literalizes the underlying metaphor of “seeing”: the enargeia of Homeric poetry is pitched against the qualities of a physical image, albeit one that now exists only in the medium of words. If the ensuing description resonates against Imperial Greek ideas of ecphrasis – of bringing about seeing through hearing – it also delights in its knowing recession of mimetic registers, moving backwards and forwards from the idea of the shield as object, the Homeric textual representation, a painting depicted after that text, a speech that in turn explains the picture, and the prose text which brings together all of these ontological levels. No less importantly – not to mention appropriately, given the overriding subject of the book in hand – our Philostratean passage must also be read against a visual backdrop: it calls to be interpreted against artistic as well as literary responses to the Homeric ecphrastic subject. As we said right at the beginning of the chapter, numerous artists responded to the challenge of visually instantiating the shield of Achilles, turning its words for reading back into images for seeing [Figs. 16.1–6]. If Philostratus plays upon traditions of literary response and criticism, his games likewise resonate against an artistic tradition – against the sorts of visual materializations of the shield that we know proliferated in antiquity. In order to make critical sense of this passage, one might say, it is necessary to look at it through the lens of both classical philology and classical archaeology. My analysis in this chapter has of course dealt with only a single passage by the Younger Philostratus. But it can perhaps suffice to showcase the Imagines as a more sophisticated text than usually assumed. Even the most openminded modern classicists have dismissed Philostratus’ “long-winded and vague” descriptions.107 A foremost scholarly preoccupation, moreover, has been with the “authenticity” of the images described: overlooking the careful linguistic make-up of each description, classicists have tended to argue about whether or not the tableaux could relate to “real” paintings.108 In my view, this is a question that starts on the wrong foot. As the Younger Philostratus makes

107 Webb 1992, 16. 108 In the context of Im. 10, see most recently Amedick 1999, esp. 162 (“Wenn man den Autor beim Wort nimmt, setzt eine solche Beschreibung voraus, daß er nicht nur seinen Homer kannte, sondern auch eine bildliche Umsetzung vor Augen hatte”) and Pasquariello 2004, 113–115 (concluding that “le testimonianze letterarie ed iconografiche portano a considerare il quadro essenzialmente come una esercitazione di puro gusto letterario …”). More generally on debates about the reality of the gallery – in the Younger Philostratus’ Imagines, as well as in the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus – see the bibliography cited in Amedick 1999, 162–163 n. 21; cf. the overviews of Primavesi and Giuliani 2012, esp. 36–48 and Squire 2013b, 105, with references at 131–132 (both on the Imagines of the Elder Philostratus).

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clear in his proem, the primary interest of the Imagines lies not in documenting pictures (however much classical archaeologists might wish that to have been the case); rather, it lies in the trait of apatē – in the idea of illusion as something mediated through words and images alike. With this in mind, I would take issue with the sort of dismissive assessment that Édouard Bertrand voiced in 1881:109 In short, [the Younger] Philostratus has failed to obey this rule [sc. of bringing the reality of the picture before the eyes], which, as we have already observed, obliges a critic describing a picture to leave each individual the role which the artist has attributed to him. The artist has his means for characterizing his roles in this way, both principal and secondary; the critic has its own means too, of which the rhetor seems to be unaware. It is a similar fault when, re-tracing the picture of “Eurypylus, king of the Mysians, defeated by Pyrrhus”, he introduces into his description that of the shield of Pyrrhus, which is nothing other than the famous shield of Achilles. Here the lie manifestly reveals itself. How, then, was the critic able to distinguish all the scenes represented by Homer on his shield? What? While the artist – one cannot doubt it – had contented himself with summary indications, he [the rhetor] wants everything with this infinite detail! Need one add that the copy is as flat as the model is sublime? Clumsy rhetor! How his schoolboy-hand ruins the work of the master, scrambling the painting and the colours, breaking up the groups and disorganizing the picture! No longer neat, precise contours, but a confused image: all the picturesque detail is destroyed by the banter of a bel esprit.

Where Bertrand characterizes our passage as “flat” (plate) and “confused” (confuse) – the work of an altogether “clumsy” (maladroit) author – I hope to have sketched a more sympathetic picture. The dazzling brilliance of this tableau lies precisely in exploring the “lie” (mensonge) that underpins ecphrasis as rhetorical trope: not only does Philostratus draw/write an ecphrasis of an ecphrasis, probing the fictions of sight through sound and sound through

109 Bertrand 1881, 249–250 (my translation): “En somme, Philostrate a manqué à cette loi qui, comme nous l’avons déjà remarqué, s’impose au critique décrivant un tableau de laisser à chaque personnage le rôle que lui a attribué l’artiste. Celui-ci a ses moyens pour caractériser ainsi les rôles, soit principaux, soit secondaires; le critique a aussi les siens que le rhéteur semble ignorer. C’est par une faute semblable que retraçant le tableau d’Eurypylos, roi des Mysien, vaincu par Pyrrhus, il fait entrer dans sa description celle du bouclier de ce dernier qui n’est autre que le célèbre bouclier d’Achille. Ici, le mensonge se trahit d’une manière manifeste. Comment le critique a-t-il donc pu distinguer toutes les scènes représentées par Homère sur son bouclier? Quoi? Tandis que l’artiste, on n’en peut douter, s’était contenté d’indications sommaires, lui, il voit tout avec ce détail infini! Faut-il ajouter que la copie est aussi plate que le modèle est sublime? Maladroit rhéteur! Comme sa main d’élève gâte l’œuvre du maître, brouillant le dessin et les couleurs, rompant les groupes et désorganisant le tableau! Plus de contours nets et précis, mais une image confuse; tout le détail pittoresque est détruit par le badinage d’un bel esprit.”

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sight, he also relates his exercise back to the earliest model in the Greek literary tradition. The result pays tribute to the remarkable sophistication with which ancient authors tackled vision as a literary trope. Perhaps still more importantly, the Imagines attests to the continued vibrancy of that tradition in the Imperial Greek circles of the early fourth century AD.110

Bibliography Abbondanza, L. (2001), “Immagini della phantasia: i quadri di Filostrato maior tra pittura e scultura”, in: MDAI(R) 108, 111–134. Alexandre, S. (2011), “Sous les tableaux … l’image: Philostrate et l’invention des images à l’occasion de la peinture antique”, in: S. Alexandre / N. Philippe / C. Ribeyrol (eds.), Inventer la peinture grecque antique, Lyon, 45–70. Amedick, R. (1998), “Achilleus auf Skyros: Die Entdeckung des jüngeren Philostrat und die Ikonographie römischer Sarkophage”, in: R. Amedick / G. Koch (eds.), 125 Jahre Sarkophag-Corpus: Akten des Symposiums (Marburg, 4.–7. Oktober 1995), Mainz am Rhein, 52–60. Amedick, R. (1999), “Der Schild des Achilleus in der hellenistisch-römischen ikonographischen Tradition”, in: JdI 114, 157–206. Anderson, G. (1986), Philostrati: Biography and Letters in the Third Century, London. Anderson, G. (1993), The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire, London. Auerbach, E. (1953), Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, trans. W. R. Trusk, Princeton. Bachmann, C. (2015), Wenn man die Welt als Gemälde betrachtet: Studien zu den Eikones Philostrats des Älteren, Heidelberg. Balensiefen, L. (1989), Die Bedeutung des Spiegelbildes als ikonographisches Motiv in der antiken Kunst, Tübingen. Barbazza, F. (2004), “Le Immagini di Filostrato Minore: storia delle edizione”, in: Ghedini / Colpo / Novello (2004), 5–6. Barkan, L. (2013), Mute Poetry, Speaking Pictures, Princeton. Bartsch, S. (1989), Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius, Princeton. Bartsch, S. (2007), “Wait a moment, phantasia: Stoic ecphrasis”, in: CPhil. 102, 83–95. Becker, A. S. (1995), The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics of Ekphrasis, Lanham, MD. Benediktson, D. T. (2000), Literature and the Visual Arts in Ancient Greece and Rome, Norman, OK.

110 It is a pleasure to acknowledge the support of the Leverhulme Trust, which made possible the research for this chapter through the award of a Philip Leverhulme Prize. My thanks to the editors for hosting the article in their volume – and not least for their forebearance with regards to its length. For critical feedback on an earlier draft, I am also grateful to the editors of the “Trends in Classics” series (Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos), the two anonymous reviewers, and – as ever – to Jaś Elsner and to Christopher Whitton.

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Appendix I Structure of the shield description in Imagines 10 and its relationship to the Homeric shield of Achilles (Iliad 18.483–608)

Paragraph of Imagines 10

Homeric model (Il. 18.483–608)

Subject

5–6

vv. 483–489

Cosmic frame: earth, sea and sky

7–8

vv. 490–508

City at peace: a) Marriage procession (7/ vv. 490–6) b) Law court (8/ vv. 497–508)

9–11

vv. 509–540

City at war: a) Walls and siege (9/ vv. 509–519) b) Ambush (10/ vv. 520–534) c) Combat (11/ vv. 535–540)

12

vv. 541–549

Ploughing of the land

13–14

vv. 550–560

Harvest: a) Reaping (13/ vv. 550–557) b) Feast (14/ vv. 558–560)

15–16

vv. 561–572

Vineyard: a) Harvesting the grapes (15/ vv. 561–566) b) Music (16/ vv.567–562

17

vv. 573–589

Pastoral scene

18–19

vv. 590–606

Dancing

20

vv. 607–608

Cosmic frame: Ocean

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Appendix II Il. 18.478–608 (Greek text after M. L. West (ed.) (1998–2000), Homeri Ilias, 2 vols, Stuttgart, 2.190–198; translation by the author) ποίει δὲ πρώτιστα σάκος μέγα τε στιβαρόν τε πάντοσε δαιδάλλων, περὶ δ᾽ ἄντυγα βάλλε φαεινήν 480 τρίπλακα μαρμαρέην, ἐκ δ᾽ ἀργύρεον τελαμῶνα. πέντε δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ αὐτοῦ ἔσαν σάκεος πτύχες· αὐτὰρ ἐν αὐτῷ ποίει δαίδαλα πολλὰ ἰδυίῃσι πραπίδεσσιν. ἐν μὲν γαῖαν ἔτευξ᾽, ἐν δ᾽ οὐρανόν, ἐν δὲ θάλασσαν, ἠέλιόν τ᾽ ἀκάμαντα σελήνην τε πλήθουσαν, 485 ἐν δὲ τὰ τείρεα πάντα, τά τ᾽ οὐρανὸς ἐστεφάνωται, Πληϊάδας θ᾽ Ὑάδας τε τό τε σθένος Ὠρίωνος Ἄρκτόν θ᾽, ἣν καὶ Ἄμαξαν ἐπίκλησιν καλέουσιν, ἥ τ᾽ αὐτοῦ στρέφεται καί τ᾽ Ὠρίωνα δοκεύει, οἴη δ᾽ ἄμμορός ἐστι λοετρῶν Ὠκεανοῖο. 490

ἐν δὲ δύω ποίησε πόλις μερόπων ἀνθρώπων, καλάς· ἐν τῇ μέν ῥα γάμοι τ᾽ ἔσαν εἰλαπίναι τε, νύμφας δ᾽ ἐκ θαλάμων δαΐδων ὕπο λαμπομενάων ἠγίνεον ἀνὰ ἄστυ, πολὺς δ᾽ ὑμέναιος ὀρώρει· κοῦροι δ᾽ ὀρχηστῆρες ἐδίνεον, ἐν δ᾽ ἄρα τοῖσιν 495 αὐλοὶ φόρμιγγές τε βοὴν ἔχον· αἱ δὲ γυναῖκες ἱστάμεναι θαύμαζον ἐπὶ προθύροισιν ἑκάστη. λαοὶ δ᾽ εἰν ἀγορῇ ἔσαν ἁθρόοι· ἔνθα δὲ νεῖκος ὠρώρει, δύο δ᾽ ἄνδρες ἐνείκεον εἵνεκα ποινῆς ἀνδρὸς ἀποφθιμένου. ὃ μὲν ηὔχετο πάντ᾽ ἀποδοῦναι 500 δήμῳ πιφαύσκων, ὃ δ᾽ ἀναίνετο μηδὲν ἑλέσθαι· ἄμφω δ᾽ ἱέσθην ἐπὶ ἵστορι πεῖραρ ἑλέσθαι. λαοὶ δ᾽ ἀμφοτέροισιν ἐπήπυον ἀμφὶς ἀρωγοί· κήρυκες δ᾽ ἄρα λαὸν ἐρήτυον. οἱ δὲ γέροντες εἵατ᾽ ἐπὶ ξεστοῖσι λίθοις ἱερῷ ἐνὶ κύκλῳ, 505 σκῆπτρα δὲ κηρύκων ἐν χέρσ᾽ ἔχον ἠεροφώνων· τοῖσιν ἔπειτ᾽ ἤϊσσον, ἀμοιβηδὶς δ’ ἐδίκαζον. κεῖτο δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἐν μέσσοισι δύω χρυσοῖο τάλαντα, τῷ δόμεν, ὃς μετὰ τοῖσι δίκην ἰθύντατα εἴποι. τὴν δ᾽ ἑτέρην πόλιν ἀμφὶ δύω στρατοὶ εἵατο λαῶν 510 τεύχεσι λαμπόμενοι. δίχα δέ σφισιν ἥνδανε βουλή, ἠὲ διαπραθέειν ἠ᾽ ἄνδιχα πάντα δάσασθαι κτῆσιν ὅσην πτολίεθρον ἐπήρατον ἐντὸς ἔεργεν. οἳ δ᾽ οὔ πω πείθοντο, λόχῳ δ᾽ ὑπεθωρήσσοντο. τεῖχος μέν ῥ᾽ ἄλοχοί τε φίλαι καὶ νήπια τέκνα 515 ῥύατ᾽ ἐφεσταότες, μετὰ δ᾽ ἀνέρες οὓς ἔχε γῆρας, οἳ δ᾽ ἴσαν· ἦρχε δ᾽ ἄρά σφιν Ἄρης καὶ Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη,

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First of all he made a shield both great and mighty, adorning it cunningly all over; he set around it a shining rim that was threefold and glittering, and from it a strap made of silver. The shield was composed of five layers: on it he made many cunning things through his skilful craftsmanship.

On it he fashioned the earth; on it the heavens; on it the sea, and the indefatigable sun and the full moon. On it he fashioned all the stars and the things which crown the heavens: the Pleiades, the Hyades, the mighty Orion and the Bear which men also call by the name Wagon – iicircling around itself, watching over Orion, alone taking no part in the baths of Ocean.

On it he also made two fair cities of mortal men. In the one there were marriages and festivals: with flaring torches they were leading brides from their rooms through the city, and a loud wedding-song was arising. Young men were circling around in the whirl of the dance, and among them were sounding flutes and lyres; the wives stood at their porches, and they each of then marvelled. The people were gathered in the place of assembly, where an argument had arisen, and two men were quarrelling over the blood-price of a man who had died. The first man claimed that he had paid everything, declaring his cause to the people; but the second was denying that he had received anything. Both were therefore eager to reach a decision from an arbitrator. The people applauded both sides, advocating first this one and then that, and heralds were holding back the people. The elders were in session, seated on polished stones in their sacred circle. They were holding in their hands the sceptres of the loud-voided heralds, and with them they were leaping up to their feet and passing judgment. In their midst lay two talents of gold, to be given to whichever among them should utter the straightest judgement.

Around the other city, by contrast, were lying two armies of troops in gleaming armour. Two plans found favour with them: either to sack it, or else to divide in two all the possessions that the lovely city contained within. But the men inside the city would not yet give way, and they were arming themselves for an ambush. Their beloved wives and young children were standing on the walls and guarding them, and among them were those men in the grip of old age. But the rest were proceeding out, led by Ares and Pallas Athene, both of them in gold, and gold too were the clothes which they wore: they were both fair and tall in their armour 56(as befits gods), conspicuous among the rest, and the people underneath were smaller. But

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ἄμφω χρυσείω, χρύσεια δὲ εἵματα ἕσθην, καλὼ καὶ μεγάλω σὺν τεύχεσιν, ὥς τε θεώ περ, ἀμφὶς ἀριζήλω· λαοὶ δ᾽ ὑπ’ ὀλίζονες ἦσαν. οἳ δ᾽ ὅτε δή ῥ᾽ ἵκανον, ὅθί σφισιν εἶκε λοχῆσαι, ἐν ποταμῷ, ὅθι τ᾽ ἀρδμὸς ἔην πάντεσσι βοτοῖσιν, ἔνθ᾽ ἄρα τοί γ᾽ ἵζοντ᾽ εἰλυμένοι αἴθοπι χαλκῷ. τοῖσι δ᾽ ἔπειτ᾽ ἀπάνευθε δύω σκοποὶ εἵατο λαῶν δέγμενοι, ὁππότε μῆλα ἰδοίατο καὶ ἕλικας βοῦς· οἳ δὲ τάχα προγένοντο, δύω δ᾽ ἅμ᾽ ἕποντο νομῆες τερπόμενοι σύριγξι, δόλον δ᾽ οὔ τι προνόησαν. οἳ μὲν τὰ προϊδόντες ἐπέδραμον, ὦκα δ᾽ ἔπειτα τάμνοντ᾽ ἀμφὶ βοῶν ἀγέλας καὶ πώεα καλὰ ἀργεννέων ὀΐων , κτεῖνον δ᾽ ἐπὶ μηλοβοτῆρας. οἳ δ᾽ ὡς οὖν ἐπύθοντο πολὺν κέλαδον παρὰ βουσίν εἰράων προπάροιθε καθήμενοι, αὐτίκ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἵππων βάντες ἀερσιπόδων μετεκίαθον· αἶψα δ᾽ ἵκοντο, στησάμενοι δ᾽ ἐμάχοντο μάχην ποταμοῖο παρ᾽ ὄχθας, βάλλον δ᾽ ἀλλήλους χαλκήρεσιν ἐγχείῃσιν. ἐν δ᾽ Ἔρις, ἐν δὲ Κυδοιμὸς ὁμίλεον, ἐν δ᾽ ὀλοὴ Κήρ, ἄλλον ζωὸν ἔχουσα νεούτατον, ἄλλον ἄουτον, ἄλλον τεθνηῶτα κατὰ μόθον εἷλκε ποδοῖιν· εἷμα δ᾽ ἔχ᾽ ἀμφ᾽ ὤμοισι δαφοινεὸν αἵματι φωτῶν. ὡμίλεον δ᾽ ὥς τε ζωοὶ βροτοὶ ἠδ᾽ ἐμάχοντο, νεκρούς τ᾽ ἀλλήλων ἔρυον κατατεθνηῶτας.

ἐν δ᾽ ἐτίθει νειὸν μαλακὴν πίειραν ἄρουραν εὐρεῖαν τρίπολον· πολλοὶ δ᾽ ἀροτῆρες ἐν αὐτῇ ζεύγεα δινεύοντες ἐλάστρεον ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα. οἳ δ᾽ ὁπότε στρέψαντες ἱκοίατο τέλσον ἀρούρης, 545 τοῖσι δ᾽ ἔπειτ᾽ ἐν χερσὶ δέπας μελιηδέος οἴνου δόσκεν ἀνὴρ ἐπιών· τοὶ δὲ στρέψασκον ἀν᾽ ὄγμους, ἱέμενοι νειοῖο βαθείης τέλσον ἱκέσθαι. ἣ δὲ μελαίνετ᾽ ὄπισθεν, ἀρηρομένῃ δὲ ἐῴκει, χρυσείη περ ἐοῦσα· τὸ δὴ περὶ θαῦμα τέτυκτο. 550

ἐν δ᾽ ἐτίθει τέμενος βασιλήϊον· ἔνθα δ᾽ ἔριθοι ἤμων ὀξείας δρεπάνας ἐν χερσὶν ἔχοντες. δράγματα δ᾽ ἄλλα μετ᾽ ὄγμον ἐπήτριμα πίπτον ἔραζε, ἄλλα δ᾽ ἀμαλλοδετῆρες ἐν ἐλλεδανοῖσι δέοντο. τρεῖς δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἀμαλλοδετῆρες ἐφέστασαν· αὐτὰρ ὄπισθεν 555 παῖδες δραγμεύοντες, ἐν ἀγκαλίδεσσι φέροντες, ἀσπερχὲς πάρεχον. βασιλεὺς δ᾽ ἐν τοῖσι σιωπῇ σκῆπτρον ἔχων ἑστήκει ἐπ᾽ ὄγμου γηθόσυνος κῆρ· κήρυκες δ᾽ ἀπάνευθεν ὑπὸ δρυῒ δαῖτα πένοντο, βοῦν δ᾽ ἱερεύσαντες μέγαν ἄμφεπον· αἱ δὲ γυναῖκες 560 δεῖπνον ἐρίθοισιν λεύκ᾽ ἄλφιτα πολλὰ πάλυνον.

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when these men had come to the place where it seemed most appropriate to set their ambush – in a riverbed, where there was a watering place for all the herds – there they sat down, clothed in ruddy bronze. Two men were then set apart from the troops: the men were to wait until they should catch sight of the sheep and crooked-horned cattle. These soon approached, and two herdsmen followed, playing on their pipes, with no foreknowledge of the ruse. When the ambushers saw this they attacked and quickly cut off the herds of cattle and fair flocks of white sheep on both sides; they also slew the herdsmen. As soon as the attacking army heard the great tumult among the cattle, seated before the assembly places, they immediately mounted behind their quick-trotting horses and set out, speedily overtaking them. The others set their battle in array and fought beside the riverbanks, and they were striking one another with bronze-tipped spears. Among them was Hate, among them Confusion, and among them destructive Death, grasping one man alive but freshly-wounded, grasping another unhurt, and she dragged another dead by the feet through the carnage: the raiment which she wore about her shoulders was red with the blood of men. Just like living mortals they joined in and fought, and they dragged away the bodies of the other’s slain.

On it he also wrought a soft fallow – a fertile field that was wide and triple-ploughed. Many ploughmen were in it, wheeling their teams and driving them back and forth. Whenever, after turning, they would reach the end of the field, then would a man come and put into their hands a beaker of honey-sweet wine; the ploughmen would after this turn back along their furrows, eager to reach the final strip of the deep soil. And the field was growing dark behind them and it looked like earth that had been ploughed, even though it was of gold: such was the outstanding marvel that was forged.

On it he also wrought a king’s estate. Here there were hired labourers reaping, holding sharp sickles in their hands. Some of the cuttings were falling to the ground in rows that followed the swath; others were tied up by the sheaf-binders in twisted bands of straw. There were sheaf-binders standing by, and behind them were boys who would gather the materials and carry them in their arms, eagerly passing them on. Among them, and in silence, was a king holding his staff: he stood at this point, rejoicing in his heart. At a distance from them, underneath an oak, heralds were preparing a feast, and they were dressing a great ox which they had slain; the women, meanwhile, were strewing abundant quantities of white barley for the reapers’ meal.

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Michael Squire

ἐν δ᾽ ἐτίθει σταφυλῇσι μέγα βρίθουσαν ἀλωήν καλήν, χρυσείην, μέλανες δ᾽ ἀνὰ βότρυες ἦσαν. ἑστήκει δὲ κάμαξι διαμπερὲς ἀργυρέῃσιν· ἀμφὶ δὲ κυανέην κάπετον, περὶ δ᾽ ἕρκος ἔλασσεν 565 κασσιτέρου. μία δ᾽ οἴη ἀταρπιτὸς ἦεν ἐπ᾽ αὐτήν, τῇ νίσοντο φορῆες, ὅτε τρυγόῳεν ἀλωήν. παρθενικαὶ δὲ καὶ ἠΐθεοι ἀταλὰ φρονέοντες πλεκτοῖς ἐν ταλάροισι φέρον μελιηδέα καρπόν· τοῖσιν δ᾽ ἐν μέσσοισι πάϊς φόρμιγγι λιγείῃ 570 ἱμερόεν κιθάριζε, λίνον δ᾽ ὑπὸ καλὸν ἄειδεν λεπταλέῃ φωνῇ· τοὶ δὲ ῥήσσοντες ἁμαρτή μολπῇ τ᾽ ἰυγμῷ τε ποσὶ σκαίροντες ἕποντο. ἐν δ᾽ ἀγέλην ποίησε βοῶν ὀρθοκραιράων· αἱ δὲ βόες χρυσοῖο τετεύχατο κασσιτέρου τε, 575 μυκηθμῷ δ᾽ ἀπὸ κόπρου ἐπεσσεύοντο νομόνδὲ πὰρ ποταμὸν κελάδοντα, παρὰ ῥαδαλὸν δονακῆα. χρύσειοι δὲ νομῆες ἅμ᾽ ἐστιχόωντο βόεσσιν τέσσερες, ἐννέα δέ σφι κύνες πόδας ἀργοὶ ἕποντο· σμερδαλέω δὲ λέοντε δύ᾽ ἐν πρώτῃσι βόεσσιν 580 ταῦρον ἐρύγμηλον ἐχέτην· ὃ δὲ μακρὰ μεμυκώς εἵλκετο, τὸν δὲ κύνες μετεκίαθον ἠδ᾽ αἰζηοί. τὼ μὲν ἀναρρήξαντε βοὸς μεγάλοιο βοείην ἔγκατα καὶ μέλαν αἷμα λαφύσσετον· οἱ δὲ νομῆες αὔτως ἐνδίεσαν, ταχέας κύνας ὀτρύνοντες, 585 οἳ δ᾽ ἤτοι δακέειν μὲν ἀπετρωπῶντο λεόντων, ἱστάμενοι δὲ μάλ᾽ ἐγγὺς ὑλάκτεον ἔκ τ᾽ ἀλέοντο. ἐν δὲ νομὸν ποίησε περικλυτὸς Ἀμφιγυήεις ἐν καλῇ βήσσῃ μέγαν οἰῶν ἀργεννάων, σταθμούς τε κλισίας τε κατηρεφέας ἰδὲ σηκούς. 590

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ἐν δὲ χορὸν ποίκιλλε περικλυτὸς Ἀμφιγυήεις τῷ ἴκελον, οἷόν ποτ᾽ ἐνὶ Κνωσῷ εὐρείῃ Δαίδαλος ἤσκησεν καλλιπλοκάμῳ Ἀριάδνῃ. ἔνθα μὲν ἠΐθεοι καὶ παρθένοι ἀλφεσίβοιαι ὠρχέοντ᾽, ἀλλήλων ἐπὶ καρπῷ χεῖρας ἔχοντες· τῶν δ᾽ αἳ μὲν λεπτὰς ὀθόνας ἔχον, οἳ δὲ χιτῶνας εἵατ᾽ ἐϋννήτους, ἦκα στίλβοντας ἐλαίῳ. καί ῥ᾽ αἳ μὲν καλὰς στεφάνας ἔχον, οἳ δὲ μαχαίρας εἶχον χρυσείας ἐξ ἀργυρέων τελαμώνων. οἳ δ᾽ ὁτὲ μὲν θρέξασκον ἐπισταμένοισι πόδεσσιν ῥεῖα μάλ᾽, ὡς ὅτε τις τροχὸν ἄρμενον ἐν παλάμῃσιν ἑζόμενος κεραμεὺς πειρήσεται, αἴ κε θέησιν· ἄλλοτε δ᾽ αὖ θρέξασκον ἐπὶ στίχας ἀλλήλοισιν. πολλὸς δ᾽ ἱμερόεντα χορὸν περιίσταθ᾽ ὅμιλος τερπόμενοι· δοιὼ δὲ κυβιστητῆρε κατ᾽ αὐτούς μολπῆς ἐξάρχοντες ἐδίνευον κατὰ μέσσους.

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On it he also wrought a vineyard heavily laden with clusters, one that was fair and golden; the grapes along it were black, and they stood on poles made row after row of silver. And about them he drove a trench of blue enamel, and around that a fence of tin. There was only a single path that led to the vineyard, along which the vintagers travelled whenever they were gathering the vintage. And young girls and young men, with light-hearted glee, were carrying the honeysweet fruit in wicker baskets. In their midst a boy was making delightful music with a clear-toned lyre, and he was singing along to it with a fine Linos song in his delicate voice: stamping and beating the ground with their feet, the others followed on with dancing and cries of joy.

On it he also made a herd of straight-horned cattle. The cattle were forged of gold and of tin, and with lowing they hurried out from the farmyard to the pasture beside the sounding river, beside the waving reed. Golden were the herdsmen who proceeded beside the cattle, four in number, and nine swift-footed dogs pursued them. But there were two fearful lions among the foremost cattle, both grasping a loud-lowing bull: the bull was being dragged away with a mighty mooing, and the dogs and young men followed after him. The two lions had torn open the hide of the mighty bull, and they were devouring the innards and black blood. The herdsmen were meanwhile setting the swift dogs on them, urging them on, but the dogs shrank away from biting: instead, they take a very close stand, bark, and then spring aside.

On it the famous strong-armed god also made a meadow in a fair valley – a great meadow of white sheep and folds and roofed huts and pens.

On it also the famous strong-armed god adorned a dancing floor like the one which, in broad Knossos, Daedalus once fashioned for fair-haired Ariadne. There were dancing young men and much-wooed women, holding one another’s hands at the wrist. Of these the maidens wore fine linen, while the youths were clad in fine-spun tunics, and they glistened softly with oil. And the maidens wore fair garlands, and the youths had golden daggers hanging from silver sword-belts. Now they would run in circles with their compliant and very nimble feet, just as when a potter sitting by a wheel fitted between his hands makes trial of whether it would run smooth; then again they would run in rows towards one other. And a great multitude stood around the charming dance, delighting in it, while two tumblers circled up and down among them so as to lead the dance.

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Michael Squire

ἐν δ᾽ ἐτίθει ποταμοῖο μέγα σθένος Ὠκεανοῖο ἄντυγα πὰρ πυμάτην σάκεος πύκα ποιητοῖο.

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On it he also wrought the great might of the river Ocean, around the outermost rim of the strongly-made shield.

Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis

Undressing For Artemis: Sensory Approaches to Clothes Dedications in Hellenistic Epigram and in the Cult Of Artemis Brauronia Introduction This chapter brings Greek literature into dialogue with material culture. I focus on a particular category of objects, votive dedications, and within this category, on clothes, using evidence from Hellenistic dedicatory epigram, sanctuary inventories, and some depictions on sculpted reliefs and painted vases. It is particularly fruitful to explore the theme of the gaze in relation to dedications because there is a real or fictive context of viewing in sacred space. While ostensibly the subject offers the possibility of texts giving voice to mute objects and guiding us through the ancient Greek experience of viewing, this would be a very text driven approach, and reading material objects against texts often points to different tropes and discourses, not neat explication and illustration. Furthermore in the case of votive dedications and Hellenistic dedicatory epigram, we also need to bear in mind the interpenetration of the genres. There is a complex dynamic here of the practice of dedicatory inscription influencing the genre of epigram and, in continuation, the practice of reading dedicatory epigrams in domestic contexts influencing choices of votive dedication in sanctuaries, and their reception through the erudite gaze. Indeed the chapter is not rigidly divided into sections dealing sequentially with literature and material culture because of the way that meanings continually cross over from one realm to another. For this reason I have used extensive subheadings and signposting to make the trajectory as clear as possible. The evidence relating to Note: My thanks to Jas’ Elsner, Ewen Bowie, Pavlos Avlamis and Mike Squire for their help. I am also grateful to Jörg Rupke for the opportunity of spending a month of research at the Max Weber Centre for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies at the University of Erfurt in 2016, joining the “Lived Ancient Religion” project. I profited from responses to a version of this chapter from members of the group and particularly from Georgia Petridou and Esther Eidinow. All errors are mine. Two books of great relevance to my subject were published after I had submitted this manuscript to the editors: C. Constantakopoulou Aegean Interactions: Delos and its Networks in the Third Century, (Oxford University Press, 2017) and A. Purves (ed.) Touch and the Ancient Senses (Routledge, 2017). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-021

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clothes dedications is analysed and explored through a sensory approach, an area of burgeoning scholarship which applies a highly empathetic reading to ancient engagements with, and reception of, texts and objects through the five senses.1 Thus I use the specific example of clothes dedications to argue for the fundamental and complex intertwining of the material and literary worlds. Section A focuses on viewing clothes dedications through close readings of Hellenistic dedicatory epigrams, through an analysis of the effect of the embodied experience of reading these poems in private domestic space, and finally through an exploration of the broader cultural meanings of disembodied clothes using the evidence of red figure vase paintings. Section B takes a close look at a very different type of text about clothes dedications, the Late Classical inventories of clothing dedications to Artemis Brauronia. To a degree these are read against the dedicatory epigrams, both in terms of discourse and content, and in terms of the differences in the embodied experience of reading these stone texts. They are also used for the evidence they provide for the display of actual clothes dedications in the sanctuary. Section C finally considers votive sculptural depictions of clothes in the light of broader cultural meanings and the specific associations of the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. While differences emerge in the embodied and sensory experience of engaging with literary, inscriptional, “real” and sculptural clothes in their different contexts of reception I argue that in each case a key feature is the evocation of the absent body of the dedicant and the triangulation of deity, dedicant and viewer through the medium of the votive garment. In bringing together disparate and varied evidence I engage with scholarship from different disciplines including Classical philology, epigraphy and archaeology. I briefly set out here where the chapter fits in to the broader scholarly landscape, putting forward the case that it breaks new ground in its chosen focus and in its synthesis of primary evidence and analytical approaches. The theoretical background of the chapter includes humanities and social sciences scholarship on the body and identity,2 the foundational works of Barthes and Bourdieu on the social role of clothing3, and more recent scholarship on sensory perception and accessing the ancient senses. I draw on studies of clothing in Graeco-Roman antiquity which are informed by contemporary dress theory and often synthesize literary, visual and epigraphic evidence very effec-

1 See Squire 2016, Bradley 2015, Hamilakis 2014, Butler / Purves 2013 and Jütte 2005. 2 See Turner 1996, Grosz 1994, Shilling 1993 and Synnott 1993; and more specifically within Classical scholarship see Garrison 2010, Osborne 2011, Porter 1999 and Foucault 1990. 3 See Barthes 1990 and Bourdieu 1986.

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tively.4 More specifically within Classical studies there is a strong and growing body of scholarship on materiality and Hellenistic epigrams, but this tends to focus not on dedicatory poems about clothes or other everyday objects, but on the more “elevated” ekphrastic poems which evoke works of art, typically statues or painted images.5 An important direction of scholarly work on this kind of dedicatory epigram is the poems’ engagement with contemporary artistic trends of realism, art historical theories, and the limits of artistic representation. By contrast, epigrams about clothing do not offer such sophisticated engagement with artistic and theoretical discourses (which may account for more limited scholarly interest) but instead have other effects. The lack of visibility of epigrams about clothing dedications may have been compounded by the low status of the fictive dedicants, as it is frequently implied that they are poor and female.6 My attempt to access these experiences falls within the broader academic project of rethinking the place of hitherto marginalized groups on the grounds of race, gender, sexuality and disability. A potentially interesting area of research, that of direct correlations between epigrams with real archaeological objects – of literature and materiality – has not been possible because of the absence of clothing from votive, sanctuary contexts, although clothing from funerary contexts does survive in very rare instances.7 A focus on dedicatory epigrams on clothes, then, with an application of a sensory approach raises new questions and issues. Sanctuary inventories including lists of clothing dedications have received attention from epigraphists and historians, although the study of the clothes catalogues from Brauron is still hampered by their fragmentary state, the duplication of parts of the lists and incomplete publication. Much of the work has been directed towards establishing the types of dedicated clothes, including type of textile and colour, effectively using the catalogues as straightforward historical sources rather than as texts evoking clothes in their own right, although more recently the discourse of the catalogues is being explored in the light of theoretical scholarship on clothes and the body.8 An exploration of 4 See Lee 2015, Cleland / Harlow / Llewellyn-Jones 2005, Llewellyn-Jones 2003, and Cleland / Davies / Llewellyn-Jones 2007; see also Wyles 2011 on theatrical costume. 5 On Hellenistic epigrams on works of art see Squire 2010, Platt 2002, Stewart 2005 and Sens 2005. 6 e.g. AP 6.250=Antiphilus 1 GOP. 7 For archaeological remains of clothing see Moulherat / Spantidaki 2003 and Vickers 1999. 8 See below n. 57 on scholarship on inventories and on Brauron in particular see Cleland 2005a. Despite Cleland’s nuanced approach the inventories are not interpreted as physical monuments but instead are used to analyse the collection of “real” votives. This is indicated by Cleland’s decision to create a continuous text which omits (though references) duplication of text.

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these inventories as material monuments in their own right and literary discourses through a sensory approach, and read against the dedicatory epigrams, has not been attempted and offers a fresh perspective. Both for the analysis of the dedicatory epigrams and of the Brauronian inventories the physical contexts of viewing are explored. Archaeological research is drawn on for domestic Hellenistic space and for the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron including buildings, spatial layout and display of votive dedications. Art historical scholarship including iconographic analysis and work on reception and the viewer are brought to bear here in the analysis of contexts of reading and of sculptural depictions of clothes in houses and in sanctuaries. So, the chapter offers a case study analysis of a range of primary evidence, making use of varied bodies of scholarship and reading text against materiality through a sensory approach.

A. Hellenistic Dedicatory Epigrams about Clothes: Meanings and Domestic Reception (1) Close Readings of Four Epigrams I begin with close readings of four epigrams which explore the way that dedicated clothes negotiate the relationship of dedicant, divinity and reader / viewer.9 The choice of poems gives a sense of the range of themes which are developed in dedicatory epigrams about clothes. The readings emphasise the role of materiality and sensory details in this complex literary triangulation. (i) AP 6.276=Antipater of Sidon 51 HE (fl. c.100 BC) Ἡ πολύθριξ οὔλας ἀνεδήσατο παρθένος Ἵππη χαίτας, εὐώδη σμηχομένα κρόταφον· ἤδη γάρ οἱ ἐπῆλθε γάμου τέλος· αἱ δ᾿ ἐπὶ κόρσῃ μίτραι παρθενίας αἰτέομεν χάριτας. Ἄρτεμι, σῇ δ᾿ ἰότητι γάμος θ᾿ ἅμα καὶ γένος εἴη τῇ Λυκομηδείδου παιδὶ λιπαστραγάλῃ. Hippe, the maiden, has put up her abundant curly hair, brushing it from her perfumed temples, for the solemn time when she must wed has come, and I the snood that used to rest there require in my wearer the grace of virginity. But, Artemis, in your loving-kindness grant to Lykomedes’ child, who has bidden farewell to her knuckle-bones, both a husband and children.

9 Unless otherwise stated all translations are from AP with some changes.

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The mundane snood, animated and speaking in its own voice, focuses the reader’s attention not just on itself, but on the body, specifically the hair, that used to be held beneath. The description of Hippe putting up her hair is sensuous, evoking not just the sense of smell through the reference to her perfumed temples (εὐώδη … κρόταφον), but also the sense of touch through the reference to abundant and curly hair (πολύθριξ οὔλας … χαίτας), suggestive of mass and texture. Although she is not yet married, the putting up of her hair takes the reader into the future life of Hippe as a married woman and even a mother, proleptically referred to at the end in the prayer. At the same time the past life of Hippe as a child is evoked through the material object of the knuckle bones. The connection between the dedicant and the goddess is centred on the bodily state of virginity, glimpsed through the knucklebones and snood, and its end is foreshadowed in the sensuous description of Hippe’s body. The snood, the votive garment, then, is located at the crossroads of Hippe’s life stages; it mediates between Hippe, the reader and the goddess in a manner which is both highly charged and quotidian. (ii) AP 6.272=Perses 2 HE (C4th BC) Ζῶμά τοι, ὦ Λατωΐ, καὶ ἀνθεμόεντα κύπασσιν, καὶ μίτραν μαστοῖς σφιγκτὰ περιπλομέναν, θήκατο Τιμάεσσα, δυσωδίνοιο γενέθλας ἀργαλέον δεκάτῳ μηνὶ φυγοῦσα βάρος. Her girdle and flowered frock, and the band that clasps her breasts tight, did Timaessa dedicate, Artemis, to you, when in the tenth month she was freed from the burden and pain of difficult labour.

The description of the frock as flowered (ἀνθεμόεντα) engages the reader’s sense of sight in imagining the appearance of the garment; the detail that the band clasps the breasts tight (σφιγκτὰ περιπλομέναν) evokes the haptic sense, either as the band, that is, as the active agent of clasping, or, as the body part held in a clasp. The girdle and breast band are pieces of female clothing with a high erotic charge, with a literary history stretching back to Homer in the case of the girdle and frequently elaborated in Hellenistic erotic epigrams.10 The idea of loosening the girdle was culturally related to the idea of opening the female body in the unfolding process of becoming a full woman through sex and through releasing blood in menarche, monthly menstruation and loch-

10 For the literary trope of Aphrodite’s kestos see Homer Iliad 14.214 ff, Callimachus fr.43.53 and AP 5.121=Philodemus 7 GOP (the voice of girl is more magic than the kestos of Cypris). On the ancient bra see Stafford 2005.

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ia after childbirth.11 Artemis was closely connected to virginity and to childbirth, and one of her epithets was λυσίζονος (“looser of the girdle”). In the poem the presumed removal and dedication of the girdle is in the context of safe childbirth, but it also implies its prior removal for sex which must have preceded this. The dedicated breast band, now removed from the body, implies the free naked breasts. So here again, through a sensuous and intimate focus on the clothes dedications, the reader is enabled to look back into Timaessa’s erotic and reproductive life and forward into the freedom of her body from constraining clothes, from the state of virginity and from the weight of pregnancy and childbirth. The interiority no less than the skin surface of Timaessa’s body is alluded to in this poem. Dedicant, goddess and reader are triangulated through the garments which evoke the body of Timaessa. (iii) AP 6.286=Leonidas of Tarentum 40 HE (fl. c.294-c.281 B.C) Τῆς πέζης τὰ μὲν ἄκρα τὰ δεξιὰ μέχρι παλαιστῆς καὶ σπιθαμῆς οὔλης Βίττιον εἰργάσατο· θάτερα δ᾿ Ἀντιάνειρα προσήρμοσε· τὸν δὲ μεταξὺ Μαίανδρον καὶ τὰς παρθενικὰς Βιτίη. κουρᾶν καλλίστη Διός, Ἄρτεμι, τοῦτο τὸ νῆμα πρὸς ψυχῆς θείης, τὴν τριπόνητον ἔριν. The right end of the border, measuring a span and a whole palm, is the work of Bitto; the other extremity was added by Antianeira, while Bitie worked the girls and the Maeander in the middle. Artemis, fairest of the daughters of Zeus, take to your heart this piece of woven work which the three vied in making.

The poem draws the reader’s attention to the process of production of the textile while the ending emphasises the goddess’ reception of the object as a votive offering (πρὸς ψυχῆς θείης). Details of measurement, decoration and specification of particular parts including the sides of the border (Τῆς πέζης τὰ μὲν ἄκρα τὰ δεξιὰ … θάτερα δ᾿) and the middle (τὸν δὲ μεταξὺ), offer an unfolding visual picture of the textile. The identification of the three dedicants with different parts of it suggest intimate physical contact with the garment during the process of weaving and also emphasise the communal process of production materialized in the offering. The textile permanently unites the women their communal yet competitive efforts to please Artemis. A bodily focus is discernible also in the reference to the human figures woven into the textile (τὰς παρθενικὰς) and in the

11 On Artemis as the releaser of blood in menarche, defloration, labour and lochia, and the related idea of loosening the zone (girdle) see King, 1998, 75–98, particularly 85–86; on the imagery of untying the belt and the parallel idea of opening the woman’s body see Blundell 2002, 156–58.

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specific mention of the size of a section in terms of measurements evoking parts of the body (μέχρι παλαιστῆς καὶ σπιθαμῆς οὔλης). The effect is to evoke the absent bodies of the depicted girls and of the three weavers who created and handled the textile. (iv) AP 6.358=Diotimus 7 HE (C3rd BC) Χαῖρέ μοι, ἁβρὲ κύπασσι, τὸν Ὀμφάλη ἥ ποτε Λυδὴ λυσαμένη φιλότητ᾿ ἦλθεν ἐς Ἡρακλέους. ὄλβιος ἦσθα, κύπασσι, καὶ ἐς τότε καὶ πάλιν, ὡς νῦν χρύσεον Ἀρτέμιδος τοῦτ᾿ ἐπέβης μέλαθρον. Hail, dainty frock, that Lydian Omphale took off to go to the bed of Herakles. You were blessed then, o frock, and blessed again you are now that you have entered this golden house of Artemis.

In the final poem the significance of the dress is created by reference to its past life before dedication at a well-known and highly charged moment of mythical time, and by reference to its present (and by implication future) life as a votive object in the temple of Artemis. It is the physical handling and location of the object which play a crucial part in these processes: the dress is taken off the body of Omphale (τόν … λυσαμένη) and moves into the temple (τοῦτ᾿ ἐπέβης μέλαθρον). The status of the votive dress as disembodied, no less than the explicit mention of Omphale disrobing, invite the reader to focus on the quotidian experience of undressing in the context of a cosmic erotic event. The dress is placed centrestage through the trope of the speaker addressing it directly; the use of the deictic (τοῦτ᾿) further places the speaker inside the temple itself, perhaps as a pilgrim viewer of dedications. So the garment concretises a mythical episode and again enables a triangulation between the reader, Artemis and the protagonists, Omphale and Herakles.

(2) A Synoptic View of Dedicatory Epigrams about Clothes These four epigrams can be seen as part of a larger group of dedicatory epigrams about clothing to a range of deities. The scope of this chapter only allows me to highlight certain themes in the group.12 Occasionally the first per12 The following poems are included in the group: AP 5.159=“Simonides” 1 ΗΕ (attributed to Simonides in the Anthology but more likely to be later than 323 BC; see HE vol 2, 517); AP 5.199= Hedylus 2 HE (c.300–250 BC); AP 5.200=Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 36 HE; AP 6.21=Anonymous Epigrams 18 FGE (Anonymous, likely to be from Philip’s Garland, FGE 324–5); AP 6.88=Antiphanes 1 GOP (after 100BC, before the time of Philip of Thessalonica); AP 6.95=Antiphilus 15 GOP (perhaps Neronian); AP 6.133=“Archilochus” 2 FGE (in fact epideictic Hellenistic epigram FGE 147–8); AP 6.136=“Anacreon” 7 FGE (on the basis of the absence of

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son is used for the dedicant or even for the personified item of clothing itself, thereby animating it; but more typically the poems unfold in the third person in an ostensibly neutral voice.13 The item of clothing is either dedicated on its own or as part of a group of clothes or other objects.14 In this way it is presented to the reader’s eye as a stand-alone object or briefly in the spotlight within a series of objects. Some poems emphasise the act of dedication and divine acceptance, that is, the ritual that transforms the clothing into a votive object, the protected property of the god.15 Two poems offer a surprise reversal of the

named deity it is suggested that it is C6th or C5th BC in FGE 138–9); AP 6.172=Anonymous Epigrams 20 FGE (“style similar to that of some of the earlier authors in Meleager’s Garland” FGE 326–7); AP 6.199=Antiphilus 16 GOP (perhaps Neronian); AP 6.200=Leonidas of Tarentum 38 HE (fl. c.294-c.281 BC); AP 6.201=Marcus Argentarius 17 GOP (fl.20 BC-AD16, “like Meleager in spirit and style” GOP 166); AP 6.202=Leonidas of Tarentum 1 HE (fl. c.294-c.281 BC); AP 6.206 Antipater of Sidon 6 HE (fl. c.100 BC); AP 6.207 Archias; AP 6.208=Antipater of Thessalonica 9 GOP (fl.20BC-AD20); AP 6.210=Philetas of Samos 1 HE (first generation Hellenistic poets); AP 6.211=Leonidas of Tarentum 2 HE, (fl. c.294-c.281 BC); AP 6.217=“Simonides” 59 FGE (Hellenistic composition); AP 6.245=Diodorus 4 GOP (probably late C1st BC); AP 6.250=Antiphilus 1 GOP (perhaps Neronian); AP 6.254=Myrinus 2 GOP (‘skilful imitator of Leonidas’ GOP 319); AP 6.265= Nossis 3 HE (first generation of Hellenistic poets); AP 6.270=Nicias 3 HE (fl.c.300–250 BC); AP 6.271=Phaedimus 1 HE (C3rd BC?); AP 6.272=Perses 2 HE (C4th BC); AP 6.275=Nossis 5 HE (first generation of Hellenistic poets); AP 6.276=Antipater of Sidon 51 HE (fl. c.100 BC); AP 6.280= Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 41 HE; AP 6.282=Theodorus 1 HE (follower of Leonidas, a poet of the Garland HE 551); AP 6.286=Leonidas of Tarentum 40 (fl. c.294-c.281 BC); AP 6.287=Antipater of Sidon 52 HE (fl. c.100 BC); AP 6.292=Hedylus 1 HE (c.300–250 BC); AP 6.293=Leonidas of Tarentum 54 HE (fl. c.294-c.281 BC); AP 6.294=Phanias 2 HE (“among the latest of Meleager’s team” HE 465); AP 6.298=Leonidas of Tarentum 55 HE (fl. c.294-c.281 BC); AP 6.314=Nicodemus of Heraclea 1 FGE (date unknown); AP 6.335=Antipater of Thessalonica 41 GOP (fl.20BC-AD20); AP 6.358=Diotimus 7 HE (C3rd BC?); The New Posidippus no. 36 Col VI 10–17 (c.310–240BC). Compare AP 6.59 Agathias Scholasticus (C6th AD). See also offerings from humans to other humans where the form of dedicatory epigram is maintained: AP 6.250=Antiphilus 1 GOP, AP 6.314=Nicodemus of Heraclea 1 FGE, AP 6.335=Antipater of Thessalonica 41 GOP. Compare the following epigrams which focus on and eroticise clothes: AP 5.104=Marcus Argentarius 6 GOP (clothes clinging to Lysidike as she walks) (Marcus Argentarius fl.c.20 BC -16 AD); AP 5.121=Philodemus 7 GOP (voice of girl more magic than kestos of Cypris); (Philodemus – if accepted to be Philodemus of Gadara dates are 110–40 BC); AP 5.158=Asclepiades 4 HE (text on belt of Hermione) (Asklepiades born c.320 BC). 13 E.g. dedicatory epigrams about clothes in the first person: AP 6.245=Diodorus 4 GOP (little cloak); AP 6.276=Antipater of Sidon 51 HE (snood). On voice and speaking objects see Wachter 2010 and Tueller 2008, particularly 12–56 and 95–111. 14 (1) Sole article of clothing: e.g. AP 6.199=Antiphilus 16 GOP (hat). Several articles of clothing: e.g. AP AP 6.272=Perses 2 HE (zone, frock, breast band). (2) Article of clothing within a series of various objects: e.g. AP 6.21=Anonymous Epigrams 18 FGE (hoe, sickle, ragged cloak, strong boots, dibble, mattock). 15 E.g. AP 6.265=Nossis 3 HE; AP 6.275=Nossis 5 HE.

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pattern of the article of clothing being given by the human being to the god: Aphrodite gives her kestos (bra) to a woman called Ino;16 and Priapus, as judge in a beauty contest, is indirectly responsible for Nikonoe receiving as a prize “the snood and purple vest, and the Laconian robes, and the gold piping for the tunic”.17 Several poems allude to the moment when the vow was made to dedicate the clothing.18 The god is often specifically associated with the trade or activity performed by the dedicant wearing the article of clothing. Examples include gardening clothes and erotically charged clothes of the girl Alexo and the homosexual transvestite Statyllius to Priapus,19 farming clothes to Demeter,20 clothes of girls to Artemis before weddings,21 clothes to Artemis or Eileithyia for the safe delivery of a child,22 the clothes of an adolescent boy to Hermes,23 the clothes of a schoolmaster to Hermes,24 the hat of a wayfarer to Artemis,25 the acoutrements of Maenads to Dionysos,26 and underwear and adornments to Aphrodite.27 In this way the garment intimately connects the dedicant to the god through its past wearing during activities in the god’s domain, no less than through its ritual dedication to that god. The reader is thus exposed to a vignette of the past life of the dedicant, and sees the article of clothing in a fresh chronological and spatial context, while simultaneously looking at it in the present in sacred space. Several poems emphasise the pov-

16 AP 6.88=Antiphanes 1 GOP. 17 AP 6.292=Hedylus 1 HE. 18 e.g. AP 6.270=Nicias 3 HE (Ampharete vowed to dedicate her head-kerchief and veil to Eileithyia when she prayed to be saved in her labour); AP 6.245=Diodorus 4 GOP (Diogenes vowed to dedicate a little cloak to Boiotian Kabeiros if he escaped the storm at sea). 19 AP 6.21=Anonymous Epigrams 18 FGE (gardening clothes to Priapus); AP 5.200=Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 36 HE (saffron robe and snood to Priapus); AP 6.254=Myrinus 2 GOP (feminine clothes to Priapus). 20 AP 6.95=Antiphilus 15 GOP. 21 AP 6.133=“Archilochus” 2 FGE; AP 6.276=Antipater of Sidon 51 HE; AP 6.280=Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 41 HE. 22 AP 6.200=Leonidas of Tarentum 38 HE; AP 6.201=Marcus Argentarius 17 GOP; AP 6.202= Leonidas of Tarentum 1 HE; AP 6.270=Nicias 3 HE; AP 6.271=Phaedimus 1 HE; AP 6.272=Perses 2 HE. 23 AP 6.282=Theodorus 1 HE. 24 AP 6.294=Phanias 2 HE (connection here is probably to Hermes’ eloquence). 25 AP 6.199=Antiphilus 16 GOP. 26 AP 6.172=Anonymous Epigrams 20 FGE and AP 13.24=Callimachus 20 HE. 27 AP 5.159=“Simonides” 1 ΗΕ 9 (zonai and graphai); AP 5.199=Hedylus 2 HE (sandals and soft girdle from breasts); AP 6.210=Philetas of Samos 1 HE; AP 6.211=Leonidas of Tarentum 2 HE. See also AP 6.293=Leonidas of Tarentum 54 HE when Rhodon made the cynic Sochares fall in love with him, he dedicated to Cypris the slippers and other grimy articles indicative of being a cynic philosopher.

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erty of the clothing offering,28 while many allude to the process of production of the garment, here again evoking its past history outside the sanctuary.29 The trope of production, as we have seen in the close reading of the third epigram above, has the effect of focusing the reader on the materiality of the garment, its decoration and colour engaging the sense of sight, its texture evoking the haptic sense.30 A series of dedicatory epigrams exclusively about weaving equipment (and not clothing) may be related but have a different effect, more narrowly emphasizing handicraft and hard work, not the intimate wearing of the woven result.31 Many of the poems make brief references to the context of display of the object, visually evoking the sacred space for the reader.32 Many of these themes are found in dedicatory epigrams about objects other than clothing. The feature which, to my mind, distinguishes epigrams about clothing dedications above all is the evocation of the human body which used to inhabit the garment. This has parallels with poems about mundane objects such as tools and weapons used by dedicants, mostly with their hands. The intimate contact of body and garment leaves traces: some are said to be marked, some worn thin, some bear the smell of the wearer.33 The poems thus engage the readers’ senses of sight, touch and smell. Key here is the idea that the clothing now lacks the human body. Rarer is the parallel evocation of the bodies of anthropomorphic gods receiving and wearing clothing dedications.34 28 AP 6.199=Antiphilus 16 GOP (hat); compare also AP 6.288=Leonidas of Tarentum 41 HE (weaving equipment), AP 6.250=Antiphilus 1 GOP (clothes offering from poet to a woman). 29 Evocation of the process of production e.g. AP 6.136=“Anacreon” 7 FGE; AP 6.206 Antipater of Sidon 6 HE; AP 6.265=Nossis 3 HE, AP 6.286=Leonidas of Tarentum 40, AP 6.287=Antipater of Sidon 52 HE. 30 Description of decoration e.g. AP 6.286=Leonidas of Tarentum 40; AP 6.287=Antipater of Sidon 52 HE. 31 Dedicatory epigrams in which only weaving equipment is dedicated and not clothing e.g. AP 6.160=Antipater of Sidon 4 HE, AP 6.160=Antipater of Sidon 5 HE, AP 6.288=Leonidas of Tarentum 41. 32 Evocation of sacred space e.g. AP 6.200=Leonidas of Tarentum 38 HE (“Eileithyia, at your glorious feet”); AP 6.202=Leonidas of Tarentum 1 HE (“hung over your virginal portals”); AP 6.210=Philetas of Samos 1 HE (“in the temple of Kypris”); AP 6.211=Leonidas of Tarentum 2 HE (“dedicated in your porch, true Kypris”); AP 6.254=Myrinus 2 GOP (“in the porch of Priapus”); AP 6.265=Nossis 3 HE (“Esteemed Hera, you who often come from the sky | to look upon your fragrant Lacinian temple”), AP 6.280=Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 41 HE (“Artemis of the lake”); AP 6.298=Leonidas of Tarentum 55 HE (“hung on a tamarisk bush”); AP 6.358=Diotimus 7 HE (“this golden house of Artemis”). 33 Evocation of bodies of humans e.g. AP 6.272=Perses 2 HE; AP 6.275=Nossis 5 HE, AP 6.276= Antipater of Sidon 51 HE; AP 6.294; AP 6.298=Leonidas of Tarentum 55 HE. Sweat on clothes e.g. AP 6.282=Theodorus 1 HE. 34 Evocation of bodies of gods wearing clothing dedications e.g. AP 6.270=Nicias 3 HE (clothes for Eileithyia). Compare AP 6.290=Dioscorides 14 HE for a fan dedication used by

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(3) Reception of Epigrams in the Domestic Context (i) Embodied Reading The impact and meaning of dedicatory epigram about clothing and, by extension, the absent human body is related to the context of reception of these poems. Just as the sensory effects of the evocation of clothing have been brought out in the analysis above, so the sensory aspects of the embodied experience of receiving the poem in a domestic setting will now be explored. It is likely that epigrams were read or recited in private, and also in company at sympotic gatherings in elite houses.35 If read silently they were received through the sense of sight, if read aloud through the sense of sight and hearing for the reader and, if there was an audience, through hearing only. The article of clothing, then, at most had a physical existence in the words on the papyrus roll held in the reader’s hand, and may only have had an immaterial oral/aural existence if the epigram was known by heart. In a private reading the article of clothing was “seen” in the mind of the reader by him or her alone; in the sympotic gathering the evocation of “viewing” the garment was a communal and convivial process. The fantasy transformed private domestic space into public sacred space through the use of the deictic, the conceit of present viewing and the evocation of features of the sanctuary. In the context of domestic reading from a papyrus roll, the poems’ evocation of the absent body of the dedicant, which I have emphasised, emerges as one part of a complex web of absence: the papyrus alludes to the absent inscription, which in turn refers to the absent garment, which ultimately evokes the absent human body.

(ii) Real Worn Clothes The poems’ focus on clothing is likely to have drawn attention to the clothes of those present. It has been convincingly argued that changes in fabrics and fashion occurred in the Hellenistic period, particularly affecting women’s clothes and self-styling. There appears to have been an increasing availability to the elite of high quality textiles, particularly wraps and mantles with tassels for women, probably made of fine linen or a silk-linen mix.36 This development Aphrodite Ourania. Also AP 6.271=Phaedimus 1 HE: evocation of the body of Artemis in the act of helping a woman in labour, for which the garment is a thank offering. 35 On epigram and its audiences see Bing 2009, 85–174 and 194–216. On elite domestic space and decoration see Nevett 1999, Walter-Karydi 1998, Nielsen 1994 and Pollitt 1986, 185–229. 36 Gullberg / Åström 1970, 39–43.

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in the “real” world raises the question of whether Hellenistic epigrams about clothes dedications are in part reflecting a new interest in worn clothes, in other words, interpenetration of real and literary worlds. Be that as it may the reading of such poems is likely to have elicited an intense focus on the worn clothes of the self and of any others present. The senses of sight, touch and smell would have been directly affected or implicitly evoked in this process.

(iii) Artistic Depictions of Clothes It is also likely that the subject of the poems would have drawn attention to any artistic depictions of clothing in the house including three-dimensional sculpture and two-dimensional mosaics, frescoes and panel paintings. Just as epigram may have been influenced by real developments in textiles and worn fashion, so the changes in artistic depictions of clothing may likewise be rooted in these, as has been argued by R. R. R. Smith in the case of sculpture.37 A new feature in Hellenistic sculpture is a strong interest in the depiction of clothing, including variety and combinations of textures and thickness of cloth, particularly a crinkly chiton with a thin shawl wrapped around over the top. This is conveyed by a smooth taught surface over the plastic rendering of underlying fabric and body and, at the bottom, the chiton itself with multiple, deep folds in the drapery.38 Variety in colours was conveyed in the polychrome surface decoration which made extensive use of chiaroscuro.39 The clothing of women in particular is shown tightly enveloping their bodies, emphasizing certain parts such as hips and breasts. Whereas body language in Hellenistic art has been extensively analysed in recent scholarship the role played by clothes in delineating the body has been underplayed.40 It is the range of poses, in conjunction with the clothing, that contributes to the rich variety of genre depictions and individual characterization. The life size marble statue of Kleopatra from the house of Kleopatra in the Theatre Quarter at Delos and dated to c. 138–137 BC, is a good example of the importance of clothes in emphasizing both the subject’s body through the

37 On the depiction of textiles and clothing in Hellenistic sculpture see Smith 1991, 84–85. 38 On development in the sculptural depiction of clothes in the early Hellenistic period see Ridgway 1990a, 59–60. See also Davies 2002, 236–8 on drapery of the large and small Herculaneum women. 39 On sculptors’ interest in depicting clothes see Gullberg / Åström 1970, 42; on polychromy see Østergaard / Nielsen 2014, particularly contributions by Blume, Bourgeois, Jeammet. 40 On Hellenistic body language see Masséglia 2015.

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stretched fabric of the shawl over the chiton, and the subject’s status through the immensely fine quality and, by implication, high cost of the shawl (Figure 17.1).41 The pudicitia pose works in conjunction with the clothing: the right arm intimately holds the waist reflecting the way that the himation embraces the body, while the (lost) right arm held vertically would have mirrored the vertical pleats of the chiton below. The statue was displayed in the peristyle of the house next to a portrait of Dioskourides, the husband of Kleopatra, and it was also visible from the street. Smaller scale, cheaper terracotta Tanagra figures show a similar concern with a detailed depiction of fabric, colour and the three-dimensional body beneath (Figure 17.2).42 While most Tanagra figures have been found in tombs this is at least partly due to the higher chances of preservation in funerary contexts, and domestic and votive uses should not be excluded.43 The terracotta figure seated on a rock, a type which recurs, has been interpreted as alluding to a visit to a shrine in the countryside. The soft clothing enveloping the woman’s body brings her into contact with the hard and jagged rock of what might be sacred space, offering a variation on our epigrammatic theme of the clothing from a domestic context being brought to a shrine, often explicitly situated in nature.44 It is certainly possible that such cheaper genre Tanagra statuettes as well as high end commissioned portrait sculptures such as that of Kleopatra, were present at the recitation of epigrams about clothing in domestic and sympotic contexts. In both sculptures the clothing is a prominent and expressive feature, and the intimacy of contact between clothing and body is emphasised. Such sculptures would have been experienced through sight and also, in the case of the Tanagra statuette, potentially through touch. A statuette invited handling and turning over in the hands. The appearance of the soft clothing in hard stone or fired clay plays with the idea of textures and tactility, and invites haptic contact only to reveal the artist’s skill through the hard touch of the clothing which to the eye is so soft. Both the sculptural depictions and the epigrams under discussion focus on female clothes, although they were mostly created by men.

41 On the statue of Kleopatra see Ridgway 1990b, 144–45, particularly n. 3 for a comprehensive bibliography. On the rendering of clothing in this sculpture see Gullberg / Åström 1970, 39–40. 42 e.g. BM 1877,0515.7; compare also BM 1877,0515.8 and BM 1874,0305.69 (seated man). On Tanagra figures see Higgins 1986, 117–61, Jeammet 2010 and Jeammet 2003 (specifically on clothing). 43 Masséglia 2015, 139–41. 44 e.g. AP 6.280=Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 41 HE (“Artemis of the lake”); AP 6.298=Leonidas of Tarentum 55 HE (“hung on a tamarisk bush”).

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Fig. 17.1: Marble statues of Kleopatra and Dioskourides from the house of Kleopatra, Delos, c. 138–137 BC. Delos, Archaeological Museum A 7763, A 7799, A 7997a, in situ. Dimensions: Height: 167 centimetres. © Gösta Hellner, DAI Athens, D-DAI-ATH-1970–0886.

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Fig. 17.2: Terracotta Tanagra figure of woman seated on rock c. 250–200 BC. British Museum 1877,0515.7. Dimensions: Height: 15 centimetres. © Trustees of the British Museum.

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(4) Cultural Meanings of Disembodied Clothes on the Evidence of Red Figure Vase Images In this domestic context of real clothes worn and representations of clothes around bodies in painted marble and terracotta in the Hellenistic style of realism, dedicatory epigrams stand out as evocations of clothes removed from the bodies of their wearers. They are about disembodied clothes. References to the smell and sweat still on them implies recent disrobing.45 This intimate physical connection and the idea of undressing imparts an erotic dimension to many of the poems.46 For the cultural meaning of disrobing, piles of clothes and the implied position of the naked body I turn briefly to imagery of Athenian red figure painted pots. These date from the Late Classical period as the red figure technique and figured iconography ceases in the Hellenistic period. The chronological gap is not great and they are appropriate evidence for cultural meanings of clothing in our domestic reading contexts because they are vessels typically used and therefore viewed and touched in domestic space. Ceramic vessels offered two-dimensional images of piles of clothes and clothed bodies spread around a three dimensional object which was designed to be handled. The visual illusion of soft clothes and tantalizingly glimpsed bodies beneath contrasted with the hard fired surface in the hand, not unlike the interaction with sculptures discussed above. While images of nudity in Greek art abound, the act of disrobing is rarely depicted. There is a potential ambiguity in these images as it is not always clear whether the person, usually a woman, is putting on or removing clothing.47 On a hydria dated to c. 370–350 BC a scene of disrobing occurs in a female domestic context, and carries sensuous and erotic overtones through the presence of Eros and a Satyr.48 (Figure 17.3) Piles of clothes nearby naked bodies, as opposed to the act of disrobing, frequently

45 See above n. 33. 46 e.g. AP 5.200=Anonymous Epigrams from Meleager’s ΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΣ 36 HE (saffron robe and snood to Priapus). Compare to AP 5.104=Marcus Argentarius 6 GOP, a non dedicatory epigram which conveys the intimate physical connection with the body and the overt eroticisation of clothing enveloping the animated body (clothes clinging to Lysidike as she walks). See Tueller 2008, 118–24. 47 On images of dressing / undressing see Lee 2015, 192–195. On the ambiguity of Greek pottery images of disrobing / dressing see Blundell 2002, 144–145. 48 Red figure hydria attributed to The Group of London E230, BM 1856,1001.17. For disrobing in the context of grooming and depilation see red-figure bell krater, Dinos Painter c. 430–420 BC, Harvard Art Museums/Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Anonymous loan 9.1988; Lee 2015, 80, figure 3.14.

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Fig. 17.3: Red figure hydria showing a woman wearing a strophion and removing her chiton, attributed to The Group of London E230 c. 370–350 BC. British Museum 1856,1001.17. Dimensions: Height: 31.75 centimetres. © Trustees of the British Museum.

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occur in scenes of female bathing and grooming,49 and also in more or less eroticized scenes of women entertaining men. For example a phiale dated to c. 430 BC displays an image of five women entertaining three men with music and dance; a pile of clothes on a klismos is next to a woman dancing in a short chiton (Figure 17.4).50 Piles of clothes are also depicted on the most explicitly erotic images, such as that on the exterior of a drinking cup attributed to the Brygos Painter and dated to c. 500–450 BC, where clothes are suspended between naked couples having sex (Figure 17.5).51 In all their variety red figure pottery images of disrobing and of piles of disembodied clothes suggest the body’s erotic availability and vulnerability to penetration. A different case is that of an oinochoe in the shape of a chous attributed to the Meidias Painter c. 420–410 BC.52 (Figure 17.6) The shape of the vessel associates it with the Anthesteria festival, and its iconography has been interpreted in this light as preparatory to the feast of the Choes. The image is unusual and depicts a pile of clothes prominently positioned in the centre on a swing with fillets tied at the top of the ropes. The clothes are decorated with stars and linear patterns and are folded neatly. One woman is shown as the handler of the clothes with her hands stretched out towards them, while the other is carefully pouring a liquid over flames under the swing, presumably to impart a fragrance to the clothes, while a wreathed boy stands behind her. The clothes worn by the women are also elaborate: chitons with multiple folds, a sleeveless jacket patterned with palmettes, scrolls and stars (left) and a himation with a border (right), and patterned headdresses. The folds and patterns visually echo those of the folded clothes; but in contrast to the folded and partially hidden pile of clothes these are embodied and animated, and allow the viewer’s eye to penetrate them and see the women’s legs, arms and breasts inside.53 On a

49 Examples of nudity, piles of clothes and female bathing include: Munich, Antikensammlungen J349; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G14 and Berlin, Antikensammlung, Berlin, Schloss Charlottenburg, F2707. 50 Red figure phiale, attributed to the Phiale Painter, Museum of Fine Arts, 97.371, Boston (Lee 2015, 124 fig. 4.25). 51 Red figure cup attributed to the Brygos Painter, Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco, 3921. See also the more ambivalent use of a tondo image of naked women with carefully folded clothes on stools combined with an image of courting on the exterior of the cup (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 23.160.54, attributed to Douris). 52 Metropolitan Museum of Art, 75.2.1. Dimensions: height 21.4 cm, diameter 17.9 cm. Richter 1936, 199–201, no. 159, pls. 158 and 177. On the Anthesteria and choes see Hamilton 1992. 53 On the idealized and eroticized image of women on Greek vases see Llewellyn-Jones 2002, and on transparency of female clothing in Greek art see particularly Llewellyn-Jones 2002, 180–90, Lee 2015, 195–97, and Losfeld 1994, 371–99.

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Fig. 17.4: Red figure phiale showing female musicians and dancers entertaining men, attributed to the Phiale Painter c. 430 BC. Boston (MA), Museum of Fine Arts 97.371. Diameter: 24.8 centimetres. © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

klismos chair to the right there are more richly decorated clothes, laid out and not folded. A pair of sandals are on the footrest. In red figure pottery the klismos and footrest typically indicate interior, domestic, female space; usually a fully clothed woman sits on such a chair. The placement of the pile of clothes and sandals on a klismos and footrest draws attention to what is absent and by implication unclothed – a female body. An erotic undertone may also be implied by the inscription at the top of the image which reads “Ganyme[des] kalos”, whether this refers to a contemporary young man or to the mythical Ganymede.

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Fig. 17.5: Drawing of Red figure cup attributed to the Brygos Painter c. 500–450 BC. Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco, 3921. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]).

This image echoes themes of dedicatory epigrams about clothing in a number of ways: the shape and iconography of the vessel suggest a religious dimension to the clothes, just as the poems specify votive function and sometimes allude to sacred space; the piles of disembodied clothes are the focus through central or prominent placement and the attention given them by the human figures, just as the poems make the reader focus on the clothes and move outwards from there; the clothes are engaged with by the figures through sight, touch and smell, just as the poems evoke sensory responses to the clothes in the reader; the piles of clothes contrast with the worn, animated clothes of the human figures and the placement of some on a klismos and footrest allude to the absent human wearer, just as the immaterial literary clothes, and their depiction as disembodied in the poems frequently evoke the bodies of wearers in the past. A triangulation is created between human actors, invisible implied deity and viewer through the focus on the clothes in sacred space, just as the poems triangulate dedicant, deity and reader using the clothes in sacred space as a conduit.

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Fig. 17.6: Chous attributed to the Meidias Painter c. 420–410 BC. New York (NY), Metropolitan Museum of Art 75.2.1. Dimensions: Height 21.4 centimetres, Diameter 17.9 centimetres. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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B. Clothes in Sacred Space: Lapidary Inventory Lists and “Real” Votive Dedications The discussion of dedicatory epigrams about clothes has already introduced the material and sensory world in its exploration of content, physical reading context and the broader cultural imaginary of clothes evinced from artistic depictions. This section focuses more directly on the material world examining clothes encountered in sacred space, starting with textual evocations inscribed on stone and moving on to real clothing dedications. Whereas the theme of clothing dedication is well established in Hellenistic epigram in literary collections it hardly occurs in extant dedicatory poetic inscriptions.54 This is surely due to the fact that clothing dedications were not set up on stone inscribed bases as statues were, and instead were kept inside sanctuary buildings. The literary epigrams, then, engage with softer, semi-perishable materials and, probably, with a lower socio-economic group than do stone inscriptions.

(1) Clothes in Words on Stone Monuments: Function and Purposes But clothing dedications are to be found in another type of inscription set up in sacred space: in inventory lists of votives from the late Classical period and particularly from the Hellenistic period. They occur within lists of a wide variety of objects, including precious metal dedications, such as in the inventory from the Athenian Asklepieion, and they also occur in inventories predominantly devoted to clothing, such as the inventory from the shrine of Artemis Brauronia on the Akropolis.55 (Figure 17.7) Generally inventories offer a chronological framework through the referencing of a priest or archon, and repetitive listing of object and name of dedicant, often according to their location in a specific room in a sanctuary.56 The purpose of such inventories is not usually stated

54 Hansen 1989, 164–285 (no examples of clothes dedications). See the inscription which mentions clothes dedications from the C2nd AD Pergamene Asklepieion: Habicht 1969, no. 72 and Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 254–57 for a discussion. 55 Predominantly clothes: e.g. inventory from the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Tanagra, the Delian inventories, inventory from the sanctuary of Hera on Samos; some clothing items amongst other votives e.g. the Lindian temple chronicle. For a full discussion of the evidence see Brøns 2015. 56 On the location of dedications listed in inventories see Linders 1972, 16–17.

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Fig. 17.7: Fragmentary inventory of dedications to Artemis Brauronia from the Athenian Akropolis. British Museum 1816,0610.223. Dimensions: Height: 76.2 centimetres, Width: 38.1 centimetres, Thickness: 15.85 centimetres. © Trustees of the British Museum.

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explicitly except in the cases where damaged precious metal dedications are listed prior to being melted down.57 Inventories are summaries of the god’s sacred property apparently made for a mixture of purposes including the accountability of priests, the preservation of the memory of individual dedicants and their dedications which deteriorate in time, and the monumentalization in stone of the plethora of dedications alluding to the presence and power of the god in the sanctuary. Lists specifically of clothing dedications are functionally no different to inventories of other objects; where they differ is in the way that they effectively invert the subordinate relationship of inventory to dedications, as the harder, more durable and perhaps more expensive stone list is contrasted to the softer, more perishable, moveable and perhaps cheaper textiles. Stone inventories were monuments in themselves, drawing together the totality of real dedications. They had a three dimensional material presence in the sanctuary and could be engaged with through three senses, through sight, by looking at the stele as a whole and reading the inscribed text; through touch, by touching the stele or individual inscribed letters, and through hearing, by listening to the text read aloud. The context of encountering these inventories, like the domestic context of encountering epigrams about clothing, is important in trying to access their meanings.

(2) The Inventories of Dedications to Artemis Brauronia (i) The Epigraphical Evidence The epigraphical evidence for inventories of votives dedicated to Artemis Brauronia between the years 349/8 to 336/5 BC is particularly rich and complex.58 Thirteen fragments found on the Akropolis are thought to come from the Brauronion, the shrine of Artemis Brauronia located between the Propylaia and the West facade of the Parthenon, and seemingly were part of six opisthographic marble stelai.59 It appears that copies of these inscriptions were found at the 57 On inventories see Knoepfler / Quellet 1988 and Petsalis-Diomidis 2016b at 114–16; specifically on their purposes see Scott 2011, Higbie 2003 at 260–62, and Linders 1988. Important publications on inventories from individual sanctuaries include: Dignas 2002, Hamilton 2000, Harris 1995 and Aleshire 1989. 58 IG II2 1514–1525, 1528–31. Inventories are thought to have been inscribed between 353/2 and 336/5 BC. See Linders 1972, Cleland 2005a, Cole 1998. 59 On the Brauronion and its relationship with the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron see Guarisco 2015, 47–68, and Despinēs 2010, 151–56. On the materiality of the fragments see Linders 1972, 68.

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rural sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron in the 1960’s, but these are not yet published. It had been suggested that the duplication of the inventories was accompanied by the removal of the actual items from the sanctuary at Brauron to the Akropolis, but the publication of another inscription from Brauron referring to sanctuary buildings also named in the inventories as containing the offerings, is good evidence for the location of the items in Brauron itself.60 On the Akropolis, then, the inventories would have been read as referring to objects not only not immediately on display but in a far away coastal sanctuary associated with female rites of passage, and visited annually in a civic pilgrimage which set out from the Brauronion itself. There is no evidence for the specific context of display of the stelai on the Akropolis; as they are fragmentary their size is hard to establish, but the largest one is 120 cm high and 80 cm wide.61 The stelai were therefore substantial monuments and simultaneously readable documents, products of the democratic Athenian system. It has been argued by Linders that in Brauron the (unpublished) inventories were probably displayed on the bases still in situ around the foundation of the temple of Artemis and also alongside the west wall of the stoa where it is adjacent to the temple.62 If this is correct the inventories in Brauron were read in very close proximity to the dedicated clothing and to the sacred interior spaces and images of the sanctuary, but not within sight of the clothes.63

(ii) Reading in Context Four parallels can therefore be drawn between reading the inventories (both on the Akropolis and in Brauron) and reading dedicatory epigram in sympotic domestic contexts. First the communal oral / aural reception of lists of clothes

60 Linders 1972, 70–3 (dedications mentioned in the “old temple” and “Parthenon”). 61 IG II2 1524 (stele 6): Face A gold objects, Face B garments and bronze objects. Linders 1972, 49. 62 Linders 1972, 72. 63 Compare location and size of inventories in the sanctuary of Athena at Lindos (99BC) and in the sanctuary of Amphiaraos near Oropos (c. 200–150 BC). In the case of the Lindian chronicle the height of the stele and size of the lettering would have made reading difficult (though not impossible) and therefore its impact would have been largely through its monumental appearance and the knowledge of its recording of dedications rather than for the detail of its contents. See Platt 2011, 161–62 and Higbie 2003, 6 and 155–57. By contrast Hellenistic inventories from the Amphiareion at Oropos are of modest size which makes reading highly likely. See PetsalisDiomidis 2016b at 114). One was found within the temple, suggesting both its cultic importance for sanctuary authorities and its encounter in the context of the cult image and actual votive dedications on display. See Petrakos 1997, no. 325 lines 59–60 (=IG 7.3498).

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dedications in public sacred space amongst groups of worshippers can be paralleled with the communal reading or recitation of epigram about clothes dedications in domestic sympotic contexts.64 Second, the nature of the list emphasised the clothing as a group rather than highlighting individual pieces and can be paralleled with the effect of individual epigrams about a number of clothes and other objects, and also with the effect of a series of epigrams about clothes, recited from memory or read from a poetry book such as the Milan papyrus (P. Mil. Vogl. VIII 309).65 Third, in both cases the clothing was experienced as translated into text, either inscribed and brightly painted on stone, or written with ink on a papyrus roll or, if recited, envisaged as immaterial letters in the mind’s eye. Fourth, both the Brauron inventories and dedicatory epigrams refer to clothes which are absent, not immediately visible or available for direct haptic or olfactory sensory engagement.

(iii) Structure As far as their fragmentary state allows us to surmise, it appears that the inventories are organized by year listing existing dedications and the new dedications of the year just passed. They are therefore iterations of the same collection of objects and include extensive, though not exact, duplication. If displayed together, which is likely, they would have emphasised continuity but also the evolving and growing nature of the collection of votives over time. The official, public aspect of these monuments which were compiled and set up by the epistatai of Artemis Brauronia,66 gave a civic significance to the objects listed, which included cheap, worn, inner female clothing. The inventories for a given year seem to list objects according to type: for example stele 4 sets out dedications in gold on Face A while Face B lists clothes followed by bronze and wooden objects.67 Here there appears to be a hierarchy of materials but the fragmentary state of the inventories does not allow us to say whether cloth-

64 On reading inscriptions aloud in sanctuaries Bing 2009, 116–46 and Petsalis-Diomidis 2017 forthcoming. 65 See above n. 14 (2). Two clusters of epigrams in the “Milan Posidippus” are dedicatory in nature: the six dedicatory epigrams (nos 36–41) and the first three epigrams in the “iamatika” section to Asklepios and Apollo (nos 95–97). A number of epigrams by Nossis describing dedications to Aphrodite may also have been published as a collection, see Gutzwiller 1998, 82– 83. 66 On the epistatai – board of officials – see Linders 1972, 7376. For a discussion of the function of the inventories on the Akropolis see Cleland 2005a, 8–10. 67 Linders 1972, 29–46.

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ing had a consistent position and what that was relative to other types of objects. The arrangement of objects thus combines chronology, object typology and in some instances also storage location – the bronze objects on stele 4 are said to be in “the old temple”.68

(iv) Discourse and Sensory Aspects The fragmentary nature of the inventories has not prevented the fruitful analysis of their discourse using theories of vestimentary language.69 Here I focus on their discourse through the sensory prism and trace the way that descriptive categories and terms evoke in the reader a sensory engagement with the clothing which extended to its past through allusions to manufacture, wearing and dedication. While the type of garment is specified and in most cases the dedicant is also named, a range of further (not strictly necessary) descriptive terms are used to identify the piece of clothing; these allude to fabric, colour, patterning, decorative features and condition. These terms may carry indications of value as well as aesthetics. References to colour and patterning evoke the reader’s sense of sight.70 References to the type of fabric71, its fineness,72 shagginess,73 smoothness,74 coarseness,75 references to folds or double layers (imply-

68 IG II2 1517, 217–18; Linders 1972, 46. 69 Cleland 2005a, particularly 72–102, and 2005b. 70 (1) Colour: e.g. IG II2 1514,40 λευκός “white”, IG II2 1514,63 κροκωτός “saffron”, IG II2 1524B,220 βατραχειοῦν “frog-colour”, IG II2 1514,14 ἁλουργός “sea-purple”, IG II2 1523,18 γλαυκειοῦν “blue-grey”, IG II2 1522,24 θάψινον “broom-yellow”, IG II2 1524,132 μέλινον “quince colour”. On the meaning and use of these terms see Cleland 2005a 96–98 and 2005b. (2) Pattern: e.g. IG II2 1514,25–6 χιτωνί[ς] πυργωτὸν ἐμ πλαισίωι “a chitoniskos edged with a pattern like battlements”. (3) Figural design: e.g. IG II2 1514,30–2 Νικοβούλη ἐπίβλημα ποικίλον καινόν, σημεῖον ἔχει ἐμ μέσωι, Διόνυσος σπένδων και γυνὴ οἰνοχοῦσα “Nikoboule a new, patterned, mantle, it has a design in the middle, of Dionysos pouring a libation, and a woman pouring wine for drinking”; IG II2 1514,32–4 Αρίστεια ἐπίβλημα ἐμ πλαισίω, ἐμ μέσωι ἔχει ζῶια δεξιούμενα “Aristeia a mantle in a case, in the middle it has right hands joined (?)”. 71 Terms which allude to fabric e.g. IG II2 1524B,131–132 σινδονίτης “garment made of linen”, IG II2 1514,10 ἀμόργινον “fine Amorgian linen”, IG II2 1514,54 ἔρια “wool”, IG II2 1518B,66 στύππινον “coarse fibre of flax, hemp or tow”. On the meaning of these terms see Cleland 2005a 92–6. 72 E.g. IG II2 1514,10 ἀμόργινον “fine Amorgian linen”. 73 E.g. IG II2 1524Β,130 λασία “shaggy garments”. 74 E.g. IG II2 1514,40 καρτόν “shorn-smooth”. 75 E.g. IG II2 1518B,66 στύππινον “coarse”, also IG II2 1524Β,222, IG II2 1523,12, IG II2 1523,17, IG II2 1528,12, IG II2 1528,15, IG II2 1529,15, IG II2 1529,16, IG II2 1529,17, IG II2 1529,20.

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ing thickness)76, to being lightweight 77 and to decorative features, such as metal attachments,78 all imply texture and the experience of touching or wearing, thus powerfully evoking the reader’s haptic sense. There are also specific references to the softness of unworked wool.79 At the same time such categories and terms link back to the process of production of the textile, including weaving, dyeing, embroidery and sewing which underlie the finished result.80 The process of production is also highlighted by use of the description of some items of clothes as “unfinished” and by the accompanying dedication of woof-thread and wool.81 In this way the text suggests the physical process of production of the garment which usually involved the women of the house and therefore probably the dedicant herself engaging with all five senses. The term rhakos is used of many of the dedicated clothes. This is a difficult term and is open to a number of interpretations. Mommsen suggested that it referred to a cloth used to absorb a girl’s first menstrual blood;82 while this idea is not generally accepted due to lack of ancient evidence, if it is correct, however, the dedicated cloth made visible not only its intimate contact with the dedicant’s body it also made visible the dedicant’s blood, a vital element of the body interior. Perhaps more likely is the view of Linders and Cleland who take rhakos to mean “tattered”, “ragged” or “defective”.83 If the poor state of the garment was understood to have occurred prior to dedication then an intimate haptic connection between dedicant and garment is evoked in the

76 E.g. IG II2 1514,60–1 [κρο]κωτὸν διπλοῦν “double-layered krokotos”; IG II2 1514,65 ἰσοπτυχὲς “with equal folds”, also IG II2 1522,4, IG II2 1522,9, IG II2 1522,12; IG II2 1514,66 ἰσοπτυχὲς διπλοῦν “double-layered with equal folds”. 77 E.g. IG II2 1522,5 ληδιῶδες “light summer garments”, also IG II2 1529,12. 78 E.g. IG II2 1524B,178–9 πασμάτια ἐπίτηκτα ἔχον παρὰ τὴν [π]ε[ζ]ίδα “having gold plated spangles along the ribbons”, also IG II2 1522,15. 79 E.g. IG II2 1514,57–8 ἐν ὀθονίωι ἐρια μαλακά “in a linen cloth, soft wool”; IG II2 1518B,57 ἔ[ρια μαλακά ἐν καλα]θίσκωι “soft wool in a little basket”; IG II2 1518B,59–60 ἔρι[α κατειργ]ασμένα μαλα[κα] ἐν καλαθί “soft-worked wool in a basket”. 80 E.g. IG II2 1514,6 χειριδ[ω]τὸ[ν “embroidered”; IG II2 1517B,133 κάλυμμα συνερραμμένον “sewn-up veil”. 81 E.g. IG II2 1514,59 ἡμι]υφ(ἐ)ς “half-woven”, see also IG II2 1514,72, IG II2 1518B,67, II2 1522,26, IG II2 1524B,213, IG II2 1524B,231, II2 1524B,234; IG II2 1514,53–4 χιτονίσκον ἡμιυφῆ ἐμ πλαισίωι καὶ κρόκην καὶ ἔρια “a half-woven chitoniskos in a case and woof-thread and wool”; IG II2 1518Β,53–54 ἱστὸν ἐρεοῦν [ἡμιυφῆ καὶ ἔρια καὶ κρό]κην “a woollen web half-woven, and wool, and woof-thread”; see Linders, 1972, 17–19. For archaeological evidence of epinetra and spindle whorls at Brauron see Kahil 1963, 12–13 and Kontēs 1967, 189. 82 Mommsen 1899. 83 E.g. IG II2 1523,11 ῥάκος; on the meaning of rhakos see Milanezi 2005, Cleland 2005a, 46 and Linders 1972, 58–59.

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wearing of thread through rubbing on the skin during the body’s movement, and the absorbing of sweat emanating from the body. If, on the other hand, the poor state of the garment was understood as having occurred after dedication then what was evoked was the diachronic life of the garment as the sacred property of the goddess. In any case the singular reference to an item of clothing being “new” strongly suggests that the clothes were known to have been worn and therefore could be imagined enveloping the body of the named dedicant thus evoking visual, haptic and olfactory senses of the reader.84 This sensory reading of the inventories throws up similarities between them and dedicatory epigrams about clothes particularly relating to intimate bodily engagement in the processes of production and wearing prior to dedication, and by implication, evoking the absent body of the wearer/dedicant.

(3) The Real Thing: Clothes Dedications on Display in the Sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron (i) Location and Labelling The inventories explicitly set up a correspondence with real objects which actually existed. I focus now on the clothes themselves in the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. The inventories do not specify the building in which clothes were kept. The fourth-century sanctuary consisted of a main temple, two smaller structures, probably a heroon dedicated to Iphigeneia and an older temple; these were framed by the sacred spring and a stoa with small rooms containing dining couches (Figures 17.8 and 17.9).85 The generic delicate nature of textiles which makes them vulnerable to weather conditions and specific references to three sacred statues in the same space as the clothes dedications indicate that they were kept within a building, perhaps the temple of Artemis, around which

84 IG II2 1514,30–2 ἐπίβλη[μ]α ποικίλον καινόν “a new patterned mantle”. See Cleland 2005a, 6. Note also infrequent comments about luxurious items implying that most dedications were day to day clothes: e.g. IG II2 1514,11 κατάστικτον ξυστιδωτόν “a full-length embroidered luxurious robe”, see also IG II2 1524B,208–9 and IG II2 1523,9–10; IG II2 1517Β,162 [τρύφη]μα κρ[οκωτόν] “saffron luxury garment”; IG II2 1525,3 τρύφημα περίστι[κτον] “luxury garment”. 85 On the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron see Bobou 2015, 56–69, Nielsen 2009, Themelis 2002, and Bouras 1967.

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Fig. 17.8: Plan of sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. Travlos, Ioannes (1988) Bildlexikon zur Topographie des antiken Attika, Tübingen, 61, fig.58. Image reproduced by kind permission of Ernst J. Wasmuth Verlag GmbH & Co.

Fig. 17.9: The sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron, view of the stoa. Image credit: A. Petsalis-Diomidis.

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the annual inventories were probably displayed.86 The listing of clothes items here is strictly chronological, indicated by the priest and archon’s names. On this basis it has been argued that the clothes must have been somehow marked or labelled with the year of dedication, and possibly even stored in the chronological order of dedication.87 In addition to their connection with the stone text outside the building the actual clothes had text in or on them: there are references to letters woven into some clothing dedications,88 while others are described as ἱερὸν ἐπιγέγραπται “marked as sacred”.89 This is echoed in a non dedicatory context in an erotic epigram by Asklepiades who mentions a girdle γράμματ’ ἔχον “bearing letters of gold” and goes on to “quote” the lines, implying a tantalizing reading of the text binding the body of the hetaira Hermione.90 In the inventories there are also persistent references to clothing being ἄγραφον “unwritten” and ἀνεπίγραφον “uninscribed”,91 suggesting that the norm was an accompanying text whether inwoven or on a separate label.

(ii) Containers and Visibility A number of statements in the catalogues allude to the specific placement of clothes in containers: ἐμ πλαισίωι “in a case”92, ἐμ πλαισίωι ἐπτυγμένον “in a case folded”93, ἐπὶ τῶι κανῶι “in a cane basket”94, ἐν κιβωτίωι “in a box”95 probably to be understood as a tray with tall edges, while there is also mention

86 For references to statues see below n. 103. 87 Linders 1972, 14–15 and 68–69. 88 E.g. IG II2 1514,8–9 οὗτος ἔχει γράμ[ματα ἐ]νυφασμένα “this has letters inwoven”, IG II2 1529,14 [ἱμάτιον] χρυσᾶ γράμμα[τα ἔχ] “an himation with letters of gold”. See Linders 1972, 9. 89 E.g. IG II2 1514,34–5 Ἀρτέμιδος ἱερὸν ἐπιγέγραπτ[α]ι “marked as sacred to Artemis” and IG II2 1514,40–1; IG II2 1514,69 ἱ]ε[ρ]ὸν [ἐπ]ι[γ]έγρ[απται] “marked sacred”. 90 AP 5.158=Asclepiades 4 HE (born c.320 BC); on the latter see Tueller 2008, 124–25. 91 E.g. IG II2 1529,14 ἄγραφον “unwritten”; IG II2 1514,44 ἀνεπίγραφον “uninscribed”. See Linders 1972, 13–14 on the use of these terms. 92 E.g. IG II2 1514,13 ἐμ πλαισίωι “in a case”; see Linders 1972, 10–11. 93 E.g. IG II2 1517B,121–22 ἐμ πλαισίωι ἐπτυγμένον “in a case folded”. 94 E.g. IG II2 1514,30 ἐπὶ τῶι κανῶι “in a cane basket”. 95 E.g. IG II2 1514,71 ἐν κιβωτίωι “in a box”.

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of wool in a basket.96 These containers were likely placed on shelves along the walls. Some of these containers were open topped and it is therefore possible that some of the clothes were visible to later worshippers.

(iii) Meanings of Clothes Dedications at Brauron: Absent Bodies, Present Gods The display of disembodied worn clothes of absent pilgrims implied their act of taking the clothes off. The idea of removing clothes, and the girdle in particular (of which there are some dedications), was connected to the idea of the gradual opening of the female body in the process of maturation as we saw above in section A (1) in the close reading of poem (ii).97 While this notion was deeply culturally embedded it is specifically relevant at Brauron where annual rituals centred on young girls in preparation for menarche and marriage with its civic dimension of producing the Athenian citizens of the future. In Aristophanes’ Lysistrata the ritual is evoked in one line in terms of what the girls wore, the krokotos, and more specifically in terms of taking off that garment: καὶ χέουσα τὸν κροκωτὸν ἄρκτος ἦ Βραυρωνίοις “and shedding my saffron robe I was a Bear at the Brauronia”.98 Ritual nudity is also suggested by images of naked girls on pottery vessels found at Brauron.99 While details are irrecoverable a vestimentary code and the process of putting on and taking off clothes, was clearly important in this central ritual. The close bodily connection of the clothes to their dedicants in the processes of production and wearing, and the ritual significance to dedicants in the act of dedication, meant that, to a degree, they represented or stood in for the absent dedicants and recalled their bodies. The presence of dedications related to textile production (spindle whorls, wool wefts and loom weights) and to the female body (jewellery and mirrors which once held the image of the dedicant) would have reinforced these ideas.100 But there is a more specific parallel: women’s bodies were compared to wool in a number of medical texts, while men’s bodies

96 See above n. 79. 97 See above p. 422–423. 98 Aristophanes Lysistrata 645. 99 For the interpretation of images on pottery vessels found at Brauron see Kahil 1963, 1981 and 1965 and Sourvinou-Inwood 1988. On ritual at Brauron see and Gentili / Perusino 2002, Scanlon 1990, Osborne 1985 154–82 and Cole 1984. 100 One hundred and nineteen mirrors are listed as dedications at IG II2 1522,30, and possibly a further twenty two objects at IG II2 1522,35. See Linders 1972, 27–8 and Lee 2015, 165–67.

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were likened to a closely woven garment. These comparisons related to ideas of women’s bodies as moist, soft and spongy while men’s flesh was dryer and more compact, and they also engaged with the gender hierarchy of women as unworked (lacking) and men as the finished (perfected) product.101 Instead of enveloping the bodies of dedicants, these clothes were now themselves held in hard solid containers. Another concept that may have influenced the meaning of these votive clothes was the figuring of women’s bodies as containers: the first woman Pandora, was associated with a jar, the figure of the wife was associated with the wool basket (kalathos) in art and literature, and the womb specifically was described through the metaphor of the oven.102 Both the clothes and the containers, then, evoked, and stood in for, the absent female body. Clothes are also said to be on three sacred statues, presumably of Artemis. These may have been fully “worn”, particularly in the case of acrolithic statues, or “held” in the hand or lap, particularly in the case of the seated Artemis.103 Here the statues, which evoked and embodied Artemis, were in close physical contact with the worn clothes of the dedicants, and perhaps even animated them through wearing. The body of the absent dedicant was substituted by the body of the goddess, suggesting the idea of contact and commonality with the divine through clothes and the body.

(4) A Return to Epigram At the end of this exploration of viewing real clothes dedications at Brauron I finally turn back to poetry. For while broad ideas and metaphors about clothes and the female body surely played a role in the understanding of the meanings 101 E.g. Hipocrates Glands 1 and 16. King 1998, 28–29. 102 E.g. Hippocrates Epidemics 6.5.11 and Aristotle Generation 9 (L 7.482) (the womb as ἄγγος “jar”), Aristotle Diseases of Women 1.33 (L 8.78) (the womb as λήκυθος “jar with a narrow mouth”) and Aristotle Generation of Animals 764a12–20 (the womb as a κάμινος “oven”). See King 1998, 26 and 33–35, and Sebesta 2002. 103 References to clothes in relation to statues include: IG II2 1514,23 περὶ τῶι ἕδει “around the seated statue”; IG II2 1514,27–28 τοῦτο τὸ λίθινον ἕ[δ]ος ἀμπέχεται “this covers the stone seated statue”; IG II2 1514,35 περὶ τῶι ἕδει τῶι αρ[χ]αίωι “around the old seated statue”; IG II2 1524B,204 κάνδυν, τὸ ἄγαλμα ἔχει “a kandys, the statue has it”; IG II2 1524B,207 περὶ τῶι ἀγάλματι τῶι ἑστηκότι “around the upright statue”; IG II2 1524B,224 περὶ τῶι ἀγ[άλματι] “around the statue”; IG II2 1522,29 ἄγαλμα τὸ ὀρθὸν ἔχει “the upright statue has it”. For a discussion see Linders 1972, 14–16. On the material evidence for cult statues at Brauron see Despinēs 2010, 13–60. On statues in various sanctuaries wearing dedicated clothes see Brøns 2015, 58 and Linders 1972, 11–12. At Brauron clothes displayed on statues seem to have been previously worn: the only piece of clothing stated to be new interestingly is not placed on a statue (see above n. 83).

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of clothes dedications in containers and worn or held by sacred statues, so too did dedicatory epigrams about clothes. Dedicatory epigrams about clothes frequently focus on the act of dedication and some also allude to their afterlife in the sanctuary through allusions to the clothes as hanging up or used by the divinity.104 In an epigram by Posidippus (c. 310–240 BC) all three of these ideas are present:105 Ἀρσινόη, σοὶ τοῦτο διὰ στολίδων ἀνεμοῦσθαι βύσσινον ἄγκειται βρέγμ’ ἀπὸ Ναυκράτιος, ὧι σύ, φίλη, κατ ὄνειρον ὀμόρξασθαι γλυκὺν ἱδρῶ ἤθελες, ὀτρηρῶν παυσαμένη καμάτων· ὣς ἐφάνης, Φιλάδελφε, καὶ ἐν χερὶ δούρατος αἰχμήν, πότνα, καὶ ἐν πήχει κοῖλον ἐχουσα σάκος· ἡ δὲ σοὶ αἰτηθεῖσα τὸ λευχέανον κανόνισμα παρθένος Ἡγησὼ θῆκε γένος Μακέ[τη. To you, Arsinoe, to provide a cool breeze through its folds, is dedicated this scarf of fine linen from Naukratis. With it, dear one, you wished in a dream to wipe the sweet sweat when you ceased from busy toils. You appeared thus, Brother-loving one, holding in your hand the point of a spear and on your arm, Lady, a hollow shield. And at your request the strip of white material was dedicated by the girl Hegeso of Macedonian stock.

The textile is envisaged animated in the breeze (διά στολίδων ἀνεμοῦσθαι), suggesting at least a partially out-of-doors setting. The goddess, the deified Arsinoe II, actively desires the garment to use it to wipe away her sweat (ὀμόρξασθαι γλυκὺν ἱδρῶ / ἤθελες), a substance emanating from the interior of her body. Visual, tactile and olfactory senses are engaged here. The soft texture of the clothing and its proleptic moistness from the sweat of Arsinoe contrast with the hard and pointed materiality of the spear and shield (δούρατος αἰχμήν | κοῖλον … σάκος), which the goddess is envisaged holding. Time seems to collapse in the evocation of the future use of the textile by the goddess through the past dream of the dedicant. Arsinoe and Hegeso are linked by the intimate pre-dedication dream, the act of dedication and also by the ongoing display of the textile in sacred space. This epigram helps us to access mental images and meanings of clothes after dedication in sanctuaries. This is not to equate a poetic evocation with the real storage and display of clothing dedications in sanctuaries, which no doubt adhered to different local practices. And it is not to ignore the fact that

104 E.g. AP 6.202=Leonidas of Tarentum 1 HE (zone and frock hung above the virginal portals of Artemis) and AP 6.270=Nicias 3 HE (head-kerchief and veil for Eileithyia’s head). 105 The New Posidippus no. 36 Col VI 10–17. The translation is from Austin / Bastianini with some changes. See Austin / Bastianini 2002 and Stephens 2005, 236 and 236–43.

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different conventions and modes of depiction operate in literary, epigraphic and indeed sculptural evocations of the display of clothes dedications in sanctuaries. So while Posidippus’ epigram holds up the garment to the reader, as it were, and connects it to the physical environment (the breeze) and to the goddess, by contrast the clothes in Brauron were largely concealed in containers and the connection to the environment and the goddess was effected through the viewer’s physical immersion in sacred space. While recognizing different discourses in the realm of literature and materiality there is still space for interpenetration: knowledge of such epigrams in the presence of real clothes dedications opened the path to imagining the clothes outside their containers and animated by the movement of the goddess currently only visible in materialized, static (statuesque) form. The sensuous evocation of the garment in use by the divinity post-dedication complemented its evocation prededication in production and wearing as explored in dedicatory epigram in section A (1) and (2) and in the inventories of Artemis Brauronia in section B (2) (iv).

C. Visual Representation: Sculpted Clothes Dedications in Sacred Space The final section analyses a further manifestation of clothes in sacred space: votive sculptures which contain depictions of clothes. I first focus on two marble reliefs which depict unworn clothes in the context of religious ritual in sacred space. I then return to the case study of Brauron to apply insights to reliefs and sculptures which show clothed figures, within the context of the preceding analysis of real, lapidary textual and literary clothes dedications.

(1) Close Readings of Two Marble Votive Reliefs (i) Marble Votive Relief, Lamia, Archaeological Museum 1041 A late fourth or early third century relief from Echinos in Thessaly is unusual in its depiction of the presentation of an infant to a goddess, and exceptional in its depiction of clothes dedications hung up on a line, the shapes clearly visible (Figure 17.10).106 Worshippers are depicted on the left and the goddess 106 Lamia, Archaeological Museum 1041. Dimensions: Height 68 cm, Width 121 cm. See Bobou 2015, 99–100, Morizot 2004 and Dakoronia and Gounaropoulou 1992.

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Fig. 17.10: Drawing of Marble relief showing the presentation of an infant to a goddess from Echinos. Late fourth century to early third century BC. Lamia, Archaeological Museum 1041. Dimensions: Height 68 centimetres, Width 121 centimetres. Image credit: Aristi Tegou ([email protected]).

on the right, beyond the altar, in an arrangement typical of votive reliefs dedicated to a variety of deities.107 The scene is framed within an architectural setting identifying the sacred space of the sanctuary. The relief is not inscribed and lacks a secure archaeological context; the goddess has been identified as Demeter on the basis of the torch she holds or Artemis on the basis that she is the likeliest recipient of clothes dedications and of the presentation of an infant after a safe delivery. The relief would have been painted in antiquity, the clothes presumably standing out more distinctly in a variety of colours. From left to right we see a pair of shoes, a chiton, two textiles with tassels on the borders, a girdle and a dress. They are positioned in the background where typically such votive reliefs display miniaturized votive reliefs supported on stelai in a self-referential manner.108 There is a juxtaposition between the limp, disembodied clothes dedications above and the embodied and animated

107 On marble votive reliefs see Boardman 1985, 66–68 and 185–86, Boardman 1995, 131–32 and Smith 1991, 186–87. 108 E.g. Archinos relief, Athens, National Archaeological Museum 3369. See Platt 2011, 44–47 and Petsalis-Diomidis 2006, 209–10.

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clothes below. On the far left a woman, likely to be the mother of the child, stands tightly wrapped in a veil on top of a chiton. The contours of her body are clearly visible through, and by means of, the sculpted clothing. The smaller size of the next woman and of the male figure leading the sacrificial animal mark them out as slaves. Their bodies are frontal to the viewer with left arms raised engaged with the sacrificial offerings, their faces in profile as they look towards the altar and goddess. The woman holding the infant is larger than the slaves but smaller than the veiled woman, likely to be another member of the family or possibly a nurse. She steps forward in a purposeful manner and her clothing is in movement. The infant, which reaches out to the goddess is tightly swaddled. The goddess is depicted in three-quarter view, her face in profile looking towards the approaching worshippers. She wears a chiton and a himation is draped over her left shoulder and around her arm. This creates a frame for her body. The folds of her chiton reveal her animated contrapposto stance. These clothes are thus closely identified with the bodies they envelop, and with their movement in ritual engagement; the placement of the disembodied clothes above seems to beg the question of the identity and location of their dedicants and former wearers. At the same time it suggests the close connection of votive clothes with worn clothes, and with the clothes of the goddess. The composition can be connected to the references in the Brauron inventories to sacred statues wearing dedicated items of clothing previously worn by the dedicant. It reinforces the idea of fluidity, multi-functionality and multi-valency along a chronological trajectory: a textile woven and worn by a worshipper, becomes a disembodied dedication and then at some stage envelops the embodied god.109 The Echinos relief offers strong evidence for a heightened sensitivity to worn clothes in sacred space displaying clothes dedications.

(ii) Marble Votive Relief, Munich, Glyptothek 206 A late second century BC votive relief of unknown provenance, which is often seen as typical of developments in votive reliefs in the Hellenistic period, also gives prominence to clothing in the panorama of textiles it depicts within a rural landscape.110 (Figure 17.11) Votive fillets are tied around the tree and the large awning framing the gods help to mark out sacred space. A variety of anthropomorphic figures wear clothing: the statuettes of gods atop the column

109 See above p. 427 and 450–52. 110 Marble votive relief with sacrificial scene, late second century BC, Munich, Glyptothek 206. See Ridgway 1990b, 208–10.

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Fig. 17.11: Marble votive relief with sacrificial scene. Late second century BC. Munich Staatlich Ansammlung und Glyptothek 206. Dimensions: Height: 79 centimetres. © Renate Kühling.

are striding to the right with stiff folds of drapery suggesting Archaistic costume, the gods themselves lounge beyond the altar in drapery emphasizing curves and relaxed movement, and the human worshippers wear a variety of clothes ranging from the tightly veiled women on the far left to the head of the family with his upper torso naked. Approaching the central altar and ritual activity is a slave carrying a tray with a large folded textile which is slipping from her grasp. This image emphasises textiles in the evocation of a rural shrine echoing the genre of Hellenistic epigram about clothes dedications, which also frequently evoke landscape features.111 This evidence suggests a new and more prominent role of clothing and textiles in sacred space in the Hellenistic imaginary.

111 See above n. 44.

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(2) A Return to Brauron: Meanings of Sculpted Clothes (i) Marble Votive Relief Dedicated by Aristonike, Brauron Archaeological Museum 1151 The two reliefs examined above suggest a sensitization to textiles and more specifically to clothes dedications, and the role they play in mirroring and connecting humans and gods. Within this broader cultural context and within the specific context of Brauron with its clothes dedications in textile form and in textual lapidary form explored above, I suggest that votive reliefs and sculptures depicting clothes worn by worshippers had heightened resonance for viewers. Both reliefs and statues of children memorialized and therefore recalled the physical presence of absent dedicants. Marble reliefs are likely to have been displayed in the vicinity of the temple and stoa, probably near ritual and votive activity. While the fragmentary “relief of the gods” dated to c.400 BC, displays the gods and probably no worshippers, the majority of surviving Late Classical reliefs adhere to the traditional votive relief iconography of families of worshippers approach-

Fig. 17.12: Marble votive relief showing procession of worshippers approaching Artemis from the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron, dedicated by Aristonike c. 350–300 BC. Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1151. Dimensions: Height: 57.5 centimetres, Width: 101 centimetres, Thickness: 11 centimetres. Image credit: Courtesy of The Archaeological Society at Athens.

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ing the god.112 The relief dedicated by Aristonike and dated to c. 350–300 BC depicts a large group approaching the goddess who stands behind the altar.113 (Figure 17.12) The ritual context of the sanctuary at Brauron would have emphasised the female worshippers who range in age from an infant carried in arms through childhood, indicated by three distinct heights of girls, and mature women. The textile votive dedications in the vicinity would have highlighted the clothing of these females, many of whom are depicted tightly wrapped in himatia. The idea of removing this clothing would have been suggested by the votive practices in the sanctuary, the ritual practices of playing the bear naked and/or in a special krokotos, as well as Artemis’ role as lysizonos and the concepts of undressing and opening the female body at the appropriate stages of puberty and marriage.

(ii) Marble Votive Statue of a Girl Holding a Hare, Brauron Archaeological Museum 2258 Marble votive sculptures of children are specific to Brauron and to certain other sanctuaries of kourotrophic gods and those associated with childbirth and healing.114 The findspots of many of these sculptures and statue bases at Brauron offer firm evidence that they were displayed prominently by the temple and stoa, probably near the inventories and near the clothes dedications themselves.115 They deploy a strictly gendered use of clothing: boys are usually naked with genitals revealed, while girls, and even female infants, are always fully clothed in miniaturized versions of women’s clothes.116 This pattern follows the conventions of female and male adult bodily coverings. For example an early-third century BC statue of a girl holding a hare was found in the north wing of the stoa (Figure 17.13).117 The girl appears to be aged between about five and eight years old; she wears a short-sleeved chiton, tied around the shoulders and across the chest with a thin cord, and a himation is draped 112 On the “relief of the gods” see Venit 2003. Votive reliefs from Brauron showing the typical approach of worshippers to the divinity e.g. Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1152 c. 340 BC, and Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1153 c. 350 BC. 113 Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1151, c. 350–300 BC. Inscription: ΑΡΤΕΜΙΔΙ ΕΥΞΑΜΕΝΗ ΑΝΕΘΗΚΕΝ ΑΡΙΣΤΟΝΙΚΗ ΑΝΤΙΦΑΤΟΥΣ ΘΟΡΑΙΕΩΣ ΓΥΝΗ “Aristonike, the wife of Antiphates from the deme of Thorai prayed and dedicated to Artemis”. See Despinēs 2010, 105–14. 114 Bobou 2015, 55–78 and Petsalis-Diomidis 2016a, 64–69. 115 Bobou 2015, 56. 116 Bobou 2015, 56–59. 117 Brauron Archaeological Museum 2258 (old 60). Dimensions: 80 cm. Bobou 2015, 126, Catalogue of marble statues, Statues from Sanctuaries, “Artemis” no. 2.

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Fig. 17.13: Marble statue of girl standing and holding a hare from the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron. Early third century BC. Brauron, Archaeological Museum 1158 (old 60). Dimensions: 80 centimetres. Image credit: Courtesy of The Archaeological Society at Athens.

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around her lower body and over her left arm. The clothing is no different to that of an adult woman. The interaction of her body with the clothing also shares features with that of adult females: her feet peep out from the bottom of her chiton and her contrapposto stance delineates her right thigh and knee under the clothing. However, the insertion of the hare, a child’s pet, within the folds of her himation alter the tone and effect of the worn clothes. Furthermore the context of display in the heart of the sanctuary implies future vestimentary changes for the girl: putting on and taking off the krokotos at the Arkteia, and in due course taking off and dedicating clothes at the important stages of menarche, marriage and childbirth. Finally worshippers’ responses to their own and other people’s real worn clothes and the presence of other bodies would have been heightened by the cumulative emphasis of ritual and votive practices on the vestimentary codes in the sanctuary, in combination with the culture of reading dedicatory epigram about clothes in domestic contexts.

Conclusion This chapter has analysed sensory evocations in viewers and readers engaging with real, literary or sculptural clothes dedications, using the case study of clothes dedications to Artemis Brauronia. The physical context of reception, private domestic or public sacred space, has been explored as central in framing the meanings of these dedications. The absence of the body originally enveloped by the clothing has emerged as a central theme across genres and materials. At the same time it was argued that viewers’ and readers’ visual and haptic senses of clothes would have been heightened in these encounters. Clothes given to gods for their pleasure, and even worn by them, suggests the commonality of the embodied sensory experience of clothes for humans and gods. It suggests the potential of interchangeable human and divine bodies within the same dedicated clothing. The ritual meaning of clothes played an important part in the approach to the god. It will have become clear that the majority of the dedications and their representations were in some way connected to women, but this analysis has not been positioned in terms of a specific female aspect of religious ritual and its male depiction through text and in stone. This has been done with the intention of asserting the history of ancient women as the stuff of ancient history and not a special case. The broader concern of this case study on clothes dedications and their representations in art and text has been the interpenetration of meanings and genres, in particular of literature and the material world including art. This has been traced and emphasized by means of a focus on the body and sensory aspects of the reception of these objects and texts, including vision.

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Abbreviations AP HE GOP FGE

1916–18, The Greek Anthology. Loeb Classical Library [trans. Paton] London / New York. Gow, A. S. F. / D. L. Page (eds.) (1965), The Greek Anthology: Hellenistic Epigrams, Cambridge. Gow, A. S. F. / D. L. Page (eds.) (1968), The Greek Anthology: the Garland of Philip, and some contemporary epigrams, Cambridge. Page, D. L. (ed.) (1981), Further Greek Epigrams: Epigrams before A.D. 50 from the Greek Anthology and other sources, not included in Hellenistic Epigrams or The Garland of Philip, Cambridge.

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Kontēs, I. (1967), “Artemis Brauronia”, in: Archaiologikon Deltion 22.1, 156–206. Lee, M. (2015), Body, Dress, and Identity in Ancient Greece, Cambridge. Linders, T. (1972), Studies in the Treasure Records of Artemis Brauronia found in Athens, Lund. Linders, T. (1988), “The Purposes of Inventories. A Close Reading of the Delian Inventories of the Independence”, in: D. Knoepfler / N. Quellet (eds.), Comptes et inventaires dans la cité grecque. Actes du colloque international d’épigraphie tenu à Neuchâtel du 23 au 26 septembre 1986 en l’honneur de Jacques Tréheux, Neuchâtel, 37–47. Llewellyn-Jones, L. (2002), “A Woman’s View? Dress, Eroticism, and the Ideal Female Body in Athenian Art”, in: Llewellyn-Jones (2002), 171–202. Llewellyn-Jones, L. (2002) (ed.), Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, London. Llewellyn-Jones, L. (2003), Aphrodite’s Tortoise. The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece, Swansea. Losfeld, G. (1994), L’art grec et les vêtements, Paris. Masséglia, J. (2015), Body Language in Hellenistic Art and Society, Oxford. Melfi, M. / O. Bobou (2016) (eds.), Hellenistic Sanctuaries: between Greece and Rome, Oxford. Milanezi, S. (2005), “Beauty in Rags: on Rhakos in Aristophanic Theatre”, in: Cleland / Harlow / Llewellyn-Jones (2005), 75–86. Mommsen, A. (1899), “Ῥάκος auf attischen Inschriften”, in: Philologus 58, 343–347. Morizot, Y. (2004), “Offrandes à Artemis pour une naissance. Autour du relief d’Achinos”, in: V. Dasen (ed.), Naissance et petite enfance: actes du colloque de Fribourg, 28 novembre – 1er décembre 2001, 159–170. Moulherat, Ch / Y. Spantidaki (2007), “A Study of Textile Remains from the 5th Century BC discovered in Kalyvia, Attica”, in: C. Gillis / M.-L. Nosch (eds.), Ancient Textiles: Production, Craft and Society, Proceedings of the First International Conference on Ancient textiles, held at Lund, Sweden and Copenhagen, Denmark (March 19–23, 2003), Oxford, 163–166. Nevett, L. (1999), House and Society in the Ancient Greek World, Cambridge. Nielsen, I. (1994), Hellenistic Palaces: Tradition and Renewal, Aarhus. Nielsen, I. (2009), “The Sanctuary of Artemis Brauronia: Can Architecture and Iconography Help to Locate the Settings of the Rituals?”, in: T. Fischer-Hansen / B. Poulsen (eds.), From Artemis to Diana: the Goddess of Man and Beast, Copenhagen, 83–116. Osborne, R. (1985), Demos: the Discovery of Classical Attika, Cambridge. Osborne, R. (2011), The History written on the Classical Greek Body, Cambridge. Østergaard, J. S. / A. M. Nielsen (2014), Transformations: Classical Sculpture in Colour, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. Petrakos, V. (1997), Hoi epigraphes tou Ōrōpou, Athens. Petsalis-Diomidis, A. (2006), “Amphiaraos Present: Images of Healing Pilgrimage in Ancient Greece’, in: R. Maniura / R. Shepherd (eds.), Presence: The Inherence of the Prototype within Images and Other Objects, Aldershot, 205–229. Petsalis-Diomidis, A. (2010), Truly beyond Wonders. Aelius Aristides and the Cult of Asklepios, Oxford. Petsalis-Diomidis, A. (2016a), “Between the Body and the Divine: Healing Votives from Classical and Hellenistic Greece”, in: I. Weinryb (ed.), Ex Voto. Votive Giving Across Cultures, New York, 49–75. Petsalis-Diomidis, A. (2016b), “The Virtual and the Palimpsest: Space and Votives at the Hellenistic Amphiareion at Oropos”, in: F. Wiebke / T. Myrup Kristensen (eds.), Excavating Pilgrimage. Archaeological Approaches to Sacred Travel and Movement in the Ancient World, London, 106–129.

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Petsalis-Diomidis, A. (forthcoming 2017), “Orality and Materiality in Pilgrimage Contexts in Roman Greece”, in: P. Hardie / S. Kyriakidis (eds.) Orality in Greek Literature in the Roman Empire, Cambridge. Platt, V. (2002), “Evasive Epiphany in Ekphrastic Epigram”, Ramus 31, 33–50. Platt, V. (2011), Facing the Gods. Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art, Literature and Religion, Cambridge. Pollitt, J. (1986), Art in the Hellenistic Age, Cambridge. Porter, J. (1999) (ed.), Constructions of the Classical Body, Ann Arbor, MI. Richter, G. (1936), Red-Figured Athenian Vases in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New Haven, CT. Ridgway, B. (1990a), Hellenistic Sculpture I: The styles of ca. 331–200 BC, Bristol. Ridgway, B. (1990b), Hellenistic Sculpture II: The Styles of ca. 200–100 BC, Bristol. Scanlon, T. F. (1990), “Race or Chase at the Arkteia of Attica?”, in: Nikephoros 3, 73–120. Scott, M. (2011), “Displaying lists of what is (not) on display: the uses of inventories in Greek sanctuaries”, in: M. Haysom / J. Wallensten (eds.), Current Approaches to Religion in Ancient Greece, Stockholm, 239–252. Sebesta, J. (2002), “Visions of Gleaming Textiles and a Clay Core: Textiles, Greek Women, and Pandora”, in: Llewellyn-Jones (2002), 125–142. Sens, A. (2005), “The Art of Poetry and the Poetry of Art: The Unity and Poetics of Posidippus’ Statue-Poems”, in: Gutzwiller (2005), 206–225. Shilling, C. (1993), The Body and Social Theory, London. Smith, R. (1991), Hellenistic Sculpture. A Handbook, London. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (1988), Studies in Girls’ Transitions. Aspects of the Arkteia and Age Representation in Attic Iconography, Athens. Squire, M. (2010), “Making Myron’s Cow Moo: Ecphrastic Epigram and the Poetics of Simulation”, in: AJP 131, 589–634. Squire, M. (2016) (ed.), Sight and Ancient Senses, Abingdon. Stafford, E. (2005), “Viewing and Obscuring the Female Breast: Glimpses of the Ancient Bra”, in: Cleland / Harlow / Llewellyn-Jones (2005), 96–110. Stephens, S. (2005), “Battle of the Books”, in: Gutzwiller (2005), 229–248. Stewart, A. (2005), “Posidippus and the Truth in Sculpture”, in: Gutzwiller (2005), 183–205. Synnott, A. (1993), The Body Social: Symbolism, Self and Society, London. Themelis, P. (2002), “Contribution to the Topography of the Sanctuary at Brauron”, in: B. Gentili / F. Perusino (eds.), Le Orse di Brauron: un rituale di iniziazione femminile nel santuario di Artemide, Pisa, 103–116. Tueller, M. (2008), Look Who’s Talking: Innovations in Voice and Identity in Hellenistic Epigram, Leuven. Turner, B. (1996), The Body and Society: Explorations in Social Theory, London. Venit, M. S. (2003), “A Reconsideration of the ‘Relief of the Gods’ from Brauron”, in: Antike Kunst 46, 44–55. Vickers, M. (1999), Images on Textiles. The Weave of Fifth-Century Athenian Art and Society, Konstanz. Wachter, R. (2010), “The Origin of Epigrams on ‘Speaking Objects’”, in: Baumbach / Petrovic / Petrovic 2010, 250–260. Walter-Karydi, E. (1998), The Greek House. The Rise of Noble Houses in Late Classical Times, Athens. Wyles, R. (2011), Costume in Greek Tragedy, Bristol.

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Viewing and Identification: The Agency of the Viewer in Archaic and Early Classical Greek Visual Culture When Classical archaeology deals with Ancient Greek images, it concerns itself with viewing, regarding both its subject matter (images to be viewed) and its methodology (images analysed by viewing), one might think. But does the centrality of images and of viewing in the methodology of this subject area guarantee that Classical archaeology is able to reveal anything about ancient modes of viewing? Arguably, the material remains of ancient images – the main area of Classical archaeology dealing with “art” – tell us much more about the ancient production of images than about the ancient viewing of images. Let us consider an example. The so-called “Miletus Torso”1 dating from early fifth century BC was found in the theatre of Miletus in the late 19th century, where it had been moved at some point during the Roman Imperial period. It was made famous by Rilke’s poem “Archaïscher Torso Apollos” from 1908.2 Studying this statue would to a certain extent allow us to make conclusions about how statues were made, about techniques of sculpture from the first layout until the finished product (Fig. 18.1). Compared to this, we know next to nothing about how this statue was seen, not only because of the intellectually-stimulating difficulty in understanding ancient modes of viewing, but indeed for the much more down-to-earth difficulty in that we lack the most basic information: where did it originally stand? In what situations and contexts was it viewed, and by whom? What did it represent? Who commissioned it and why? In a recent article, Renate Bol formulated a hypothesis to answer some of these questions, identifying the statue with the cult image of Apollo Termintheus from Myus.3 In such unfavourable circumstances, one might easily assume that all that we can say about the viewing of this statue, we say in

1 Paris, Louvre Ma 2792; ca. 480–470; see Hamiaux 2001, 100–101 (with earlier bibliography), Linfert 1973; R. Bol 2006 (connecting it with a Milesian head fragment). In R. Bol 2005, the torso is tentatively identified with the cult statue of Apollo Termintheus in Myus which would have been transported to Miletus and finally re-erected in the scaenae frons of the Milesian theatre. See also Maderna 2007, 175–76 (with further bibliography in note 4). 2 The connection between Rilke’s sonnet “Archaïscher Torso Apollos” and the Miletus Torso was established by U. Hausmann in 1947 (see Hausmann 1947). 3 See Bol 2005. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-022

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Fig. 18.1: Miletus Torso, Musée du Louvre, Paris. Public domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen .

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analogy to our own viewing-experience, thus exposing ourselves to the threat of the historian’s capital sin, anachronism. The situation is similar when we consider another ancient medium of imagery, vase-painting, which is well-attested in our material record for the same period. Since the ground-breaking work of John Beazley in the mid-20th century, who attributed an incredible number of vases to different painters, workshops and potters through stylistic analysis, we have a highly profound knowledge of the microstructure of the mass-production of luxury ceramics in sixthand fifth-century Athens.4 We can trace, with reasonable confidence, workshop relationships between individual painters and genealogies of masters and pupils, and we have a most precise idea of diachronic change within this highend craft of ancient Athens. With all this information, we are able with great confidence to attribute a large amphora from about 490 BC featuring a warrior about to drink from a phiale, now in the museum in Basel, to a painter responsible for many other high quality vases of the same period bearing the conventional name of Kleophrades Painter (Fig. 18.2, front and back).5 This knowledge of the production of vases and their figurative decoration by far outclasses our knowledge about their reception, despite being in a much better situation in this area than in sculpture. We know a lot about the symposion,6 the main viewing context of vase-paintings, and we have at our disposal an enormous corpus of images to assist us in solving problems of iconography through analogy and comparison, as long as we agree on understanding these vases and their figural decoration through an Athenian perspective, putting aside the Etruscan context in which most of these vases were found.7 Nevertheless, we still lack some of the most basic information. As we shall see later, we do not know, like in the case of the Basel amphora showing the typical scene of a hoplite departing for war, whom the ancient viewer recognised in these two figures. How then can we talk about how they saw them, about modes of viewing, one might ask. Concerning the intrinsic difficulty in adopting an ancient perspective on images given the fact that we have only modern eyes at our disposal, the typical solution that Classical archaeology can offer us is to look for written sources informing us how contemporary viewers saw the images whose material re-

4 See ABV and ARV2. 5 Basel, Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig Ka 242; ARV2 183.8, Para 340: Kleophrades Painter; CVA Basel II, pls. 47.1–4; BA: 201661. 6 The best book on looking at Greek vases at the symposion is still Lissarrague 1987, but many others followed: see e.g. Neer 2002; Catoni 2010; Topper 2012. 7 For an engaging discussion of this question, see e.g. Osborne 2012.

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Fig. 18.2: Amphora Kleophrades Painter, Antikensammlung Basel. © Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig, Basel. Image credit: Andreas F. Voegelin.

mains we study. Another “solution” consists of simply dismissing the question of the ancient viewer, and concentrating solely instead on the production of ancient imagery. Both approaches have yielded highly interesting results in the past twenty years. A more intense occupation with ancient literature is a characteristic feature, for example, of the ground-breaking work of Jaś Elsner on the Roman viewer, particularly his two books “Art and the Roman Viewer” from 1995, and “Roman Eyes” from 2007.8 Another field of research which has proved particularly innovative in recent years is the polychromy of Greek and Roman statuary, where modern scientific methods of analysis regularly supply ancient art history with astonishing new evidence for colour where one would not expect it.9 Just like, for example, the great number of recent publications 8 Elsner 1995 and Elsner 2007, respectively. 9 The new surge of research on polychromy of ancient statuary was initiated by the studies conducted in the Munich Glyptothek under the direction of Vinzenz Brinkmann (see Brinkmann 2003) and received widespread attention through the “Bunte Götter” series of exhibitions (see e.g. Brinkmann / Scholl 2010). See also the research being undertaken in the Ny

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on the technique of bronze casts and ancient sculpture in general,10 this kind of research clearly focuses on the production of ancient art and does not concern itself with questions of ancient viewing, about which no hard facts can be secured. These two fields of research have little or nothing in common, or are even confronted with harsh criticism from the other side, for instance Elsner is said, perhaps not altogether without reason, to be more occupied with texts than with images, and therefore not approaching a better understanding of ancient art.11 Elsner, having made viewing and the gaze a key subject matter of ancient visual studies, has given little importance to close scrutiny of the material remains of ancient imagery in his own methodology. On the other hand, the colour reconstructions produced by Vinzenz Brinkmann, although being extremely helpful as condensed visualisations of research results, make a false promise regarding the ancient viewing experience of statuary. Such colourful statues, recreated in the very anachronistic context of modern museums, may have little relation to the Greek notion of poikilia, at least judging from the very limited impact they had on recent French or Anglophone scholarship on this topic.12 In this way, recent research in the field of ancient art history suggests that close attention to the material remains of ancient Greek imagery have the potential to inform us only about the production of Greek images, while it is only studying texts that can help us approach ancient modes of viewing. In this chapter however, I aim to show that the seemingly solely descriptive, objectfixated archaeologist’s approach to material remains of ancient visual culture can lead to the heart of the problem of ancient modes of viewing too. In other words, I aim to show how looking for the basic information that fills object catalogues and corpora (and which is blatantly lacking in the case of the Miletus Torso, for example) can profit the more theoretical framework of this book’s concern with gaze and viewing. More specifically, I will concentrate on one of the basic problems, namely the identification of figures within images, and I will restrict the chronological range of my analysis to the (still very long) period of Archaic and Early Classical times.

Carlsberg Glyptotek in Copenhagen under the direction of Jan Stubbe Østergaard (Tracking Colour Project). 10 See e.g. Formigli 1999, the publications of C. Mattusch on the technique of bronze casting (e.g. Mattusch 1996), or the work of M. Pfanner on the technique of Roman marble sculpting (e.g. Pfanner 1989). 11 See e.g. Clarke 1996, or Balty 1998. 12 See e.g. Neer 2010, 112–14; Grand-Clément 2011, especially 251–52. See also the edited volume on colour Carastro 2009.

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In Rilke’s poem, the torso which is referred to is called an Apollo. This identification was certainly not the result of any iconographic analysis. The poet was not addressing an audience of archaeologists who might read his poem standing next to the statue, comparing the two. Whether Apollo is the correct name to be given to that torso is thus rather irrelevant to the poem. Rilke did not even specify which torso he was writing about, and there cannot be any doubt that the same poem could also “function” with some other torso. In fact, a simple Google search of this famous poem reveals that, at least today, it can be put next to more or less any marble torso without a head, including torsi which clearly do not represent Apollo, for example the Belvedere Torso. Neither the exact name nor the exact torso is a conditio sine qua non for the poem’s effect. But could the poem have worked without any name at all? Arguably not! Otherwise, it would not have been “his” head which is missing and “his” gaze which nevertheless is still looking; in short, without a name, the torso could not have gained the same looming quality of an animated object, powerful enough so as to command the beholder to change his life. In Rilke’s poem, identification, and indeed individualisation, thus proves to be an essential agent of animation. But this individual identification is paradoxically rather independent of the specific content of both the image and the name. As long as the figure is a “someone” and not an “anyone”, the question who it is specifically is much less crucial. I will not go any further into an interpretation of the poem, but instead return to my main theme of competence. Rilke’s highly anachronistic response shall only serve the purpose of bringing up a somehow disturbing issue concerning the viewing and identification of figures in sixth- and fifth-century Greek imagery. From an archaeological point of view, the torso from Miletus seems to belong to the well-known kouros type featured extensively in Archaic sculpture, or, according to a recent re-interpretation, it might show signs of ponderation which would place it within Early Classical sculpture.13 For our present purpose, there is no need to decide between these two options, insofar as ponderation has nothing to do with the figure’s identity. While at the time of Rilke’s poem, such statues were still generally thought to represent the god Apollo – and we can assume that this is the identification Rilke read in the Louvre – the identity of these kouroi has since become a much-debated subject matter.14 Simply put, a kouros can represent an individual – a man, a hero, a 13 See R. Bol 2005, 39–44; P. C. Bol 2004, 1–2. 14 On early attempts to identify these figures as Apollines and on the more recent debate on these matters, see Franssen 2011, 101–5. See also Brüggemann in: Meyer / Brüggemann 2007, 121–30. Serious doubts about a general identification as Apollines are first found in Deonna 1909.

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god – but does not necessarily have to; it can have the generic identity of a beautiful male youth without any further individualisation. The kouros shown in Fig. 18.3 that was found in 1944 near the Attic village of Anavyssos15 in a funerary context is an example of the depiction of a specific individual: the inscription “ARISTODIKO” on the statue’s base tells us that it is “of Aristodikos”, and it seems self-evident to understand from this name, written in the genitive,16 that the statue above is the portrait of Aristodikos. In the case of the colossal kouros of Isches from the Heraion of Samos (Fig. 18.4), the inscription on its left tight reading “ISCHES ANETHEKEN ORESIOS” does not provide a name for the figure,17 but instead individualises the dedicant by name and patronymic. Obviously, the context of the statue – whether it is a funeral statue in a necropolis or whether it is a votive kouros in a sanctuary – is important; for a grave kouros, the idea that a statue would represent the dead whose grave it marks seems indisputable.18 For a votive kouros, there is no such automatic reference to a specific individual. From an iconographic point of view, there is therefore not the slightest difference between the individualised portrait-kouros and the generic figure of a beautiful youth. Individualisation is therefore not produced within the image itself but is (or is not) externally referred to. Concerning the Miletus Torso, there is no way to know whether it belonged to the category of individualised or generic figure, for the simple reason that neither the original context of the statue, nor the inscriptions that accompanied it, are known to us. From a modern archaeological point of view, to see the statue as an Apollo, as Rilke does in his sonnet, would therefore be an over-interpretation. But here, the critical question is whether this naming of a wholly unspecific figure, though strongly conflicting with the principles of the iconographic method, does not in fact correspond quite closely to the ancient practice of inscribing an individual name on a completely unspecific figure, as it was done in the case of the grave statue of Aristodikos. An identity which the statue and its iconography did not previously contain was externally ascribed to it. The inscribed name, then, does not merely make explicit a piece of information intrinsic to the image a priori but is – literally and metaphorically – added to that image a posteriori. Identification proves to be a productive

15 Athens, National Museum 3938; ca. 500–490; see Karouzos 1961; Stewart 1990, 133; Richter 1970, 139, no. 165, pls. 492–93; Martini 1990, 179–81; Boardman 1978, 21. 16 On the genitive form in name inscriptions, see Karusos 1961, 33–39. 17 Samos, Vathy Museum; for a detailed publication with numerous illustrations, see Kyrieleis 1996 (inscription: pl. 7.3). 18 On the understanding of inscriptions of the name of a figure or its dedicant, see the insightful study by K. Lorenz in Baumbach / Petrovic / Petrovic 2010, 131–48.

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Fig. 18.3: Aristodikos kouros, National Museum, Athens. © BY-SA; image credit: Zde .

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Fig. 18.4: Isches kouros, Vathy Museum, Samos. Public domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen. .

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Fig. 18.5: Amphora of Oltos, British Museum, London. © Trustees of the British Museum, London.

act going beyond what the image indicates. Who is the agent of this productive act? Obviously, the patron of a statue decided on the wording of its inscription. However, there is another agent no less crucial for the inscription to fulfil its purpose of perpetuating the kleos of the deceased in the case of a funerary statue, or of the dedicant in the case of a votive statue: the reader to whom it is addressed – a reader identical, of course, with the viewer of the statue.19 I would like to take a closer look at the agency20 of the viewer/reader in the productive act of identification through an analysis of other Archaic and Early Classical images. As a general rule, Archaic and – perhaps to a slightly lesser extent – also Classical Greek imagery is remarkably poor in iconographic differentiation. This concerns differences as crucial as those between mortals and immortals or men and heroes, or differences in social status. We have already pointed to

19 Fundamental here is Svenbro 1988. 20 Since Alfred Gell’s influential Art and Agency (Gell 1998), it has become common to assign agency to the image itself (for the field of ancient art, see e.g. Osborne 2007). In the following, however, I will not engage in this otherwise very productive discussion, but focus on the viewer’s agency instead of the object’s agency in the viewing experience.

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Fig. 18.6: Cup of Peithinos, Antikensammlung, Berlin. © bpk, Antikensammlung, SMB; Image-Nr.: 70149584; image credit: Johannes Laurentius.

the fact that the same statuary type of the kouros can stand for a god or a man. Two Late Archaic Attic amphorae, one in Basel and attributed to the Kleophrades Painter (see Fig. 18.2), the other in London and attributed to Oltos (Fig. 18.5),21 each show a hoplite on one side and a richly dressed woman on the other. The figures on the Oltos amphora are labelled with the Homeric names of Achilles and Briseis, whereas the iconographically almost-identical figures on the Kleophrades Painter’s vase do not get such a heroic status. Such lack of iconographic differentiation often strikes those interpreters who try to use Attic vase-painting as a source for social history. Are the women in the courting scenes on the famous cup of Peithinos (Fig. 18.6)22 respectable women

21 London British Museum E 258; ARV2 54 no. 4; ca. 520; CVA London 3 (1927) III I c pl. 5, 1a–d; images in: Klinger 1993, 185, figs. 1–3; Dietrich 2013, 50; BA: 200436. 22 Berlin, Antikensammlung F 2279; ARV2 115.2, 1626, 1567; Para 332: Peithinos; ca. 500; CVA Berlin II, pl. 60.1–4, 61.1–4; BA: 200977.

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or hetaerae? We find both possibilities opined in scholarly literature.23 In order to give an answer to that question, the iconography does not provide any definitive arguments. On the Basel amphora, beside the question of a generic or a mythical identity of the figures, another very basic issue remains open to debate: who does the female figure, with whom the departing warrior performs a libation and from whom he takes leave, represent? Is she his wife or his mother? Among the large number of scenes depicting departing warriors in Attic vase-painting, there are examples of both. A judgement between the two options is in most cases not made through iconographic differentiation between an older mother and a younger wife, as one might expect, but through the simple means of a name inscription.24 Without the name inscription, the iconography of the female figure on the amphora by Oltos mentioned above would not give us any clue to the fact that, strictly speaking, this splendid woman belongs to the low social status of a war slave. The impossibility of telling from the iconography alone whether a kouros, whose spatial and epigraphic context is unknown, depicts a specific individual or not, – or in other words, the impossibility of pinpointing an iconographic difference between generic and individual identity, stands in a larger context of an iconographic system that fails to make clear some of the most basic differences in identity. In order to draw the right conclusions from this very general observation, two things seem to me to be important to keep in mind. First, the remarkable lack of iconographic differentiation in identity in the cases exemplified above cannot be explained by any basic incapacity to mark individual identity by iconographic means. Although there are highly important heroes like Achilles or Theseus or gods like Hera or Ares who do not possess any specific attribute which would make them recognisable without the help of context or inscription, other gods and heroes do possess such attributes. This is the case, for example, with Herakles and Athena, shown fighting against Kyknos and his father Ares on the famous Euphronios Krater, now back

23 For an interpretation as Athenian women: Stewart 1997, 157; for an interpretation as hetaerae: Reinsberg 1989, 208–9; leaving the question open to debate: Killet 1994, 156–66 (in courting scenes); on the methodological problem: Lewis 2002, 173–75; Havelock 1995, 32 (with note 32); Bundrick 2012. For a view according to which almost all women on Attic vases should be interpreted as hetaerae: D. Williams in Cameron and Kuhrt 1993, 92–106. Female nudity has long been taken as an unmistakable criterion for identifying hetaerae. But here too, more nuanced views have recently been put forward: Kreilinger 2006; Kreilinger 2007 (on “respectable” female nudity in general; on the distinction of Athenian women and hetaerae specifically: 147–80). 24 See Reichardt 2007, 48–52, with earlier literature.

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Fig. 18.7: Calyx-Krater, Metropolitan Museum. © BY-NC-SA 2.0. Image credit: Egisto Sani .

in Rome (Fig. 18.7).25 Herakles’ lion skin and Athena’s aegis suffice to make them stand out from any other figure in Greek imagery. In the same contexts where kouroi or their female equivalent, the korai, were found, other kinds of images also existed that exhibited much more iconographic specificity and a greater individualisation of identity. From the Athenian Acropolis, we have two large-scale votive gifts dedicated by potters in Late Archaic times. One of them, the famous kore of Antenor,26 does without any iconographic reference to the dedicant’s identity as a craftsman, who chose the kore as the most common type of votive monument on the Archaic Acropolis. It is indeed a universally suitable gift, conforming to aristocratic votive habits, with the aim of pleasing the goddess as much as showing off the dedicant’s wealth. The other potter chose a very different votive strategy: through the two cups held in one hand by the man on the relief, a clear reference is made to the dedicant’s identity as

25 Rome, Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia; Euphronios by signature; ca. 510 BC; see Muth 2008, 54–55, fig. 25a; BA 7501. 26 Athens, Acropolis Museum 681; ca. 530 BC; see Meyer 2007, 60, no. 44 (with earlier literature); Karakasi 2001, 117–19.

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a potter (Fig. 18.8).27 Among Archaic grave monuments, we find not only kouroi and korai but also grave stelae with a much greater iconographic specificity, such as the depiction of hoplite armour (Fig. 18.9).28 The iconographic specificity can even alter the normalised physiognomy of the Archaic male body, as we can see on a fragment of a grave stele with a boxer with a broken nose and deformed ears, the well-known side-effects of boxing (Fig. 18.10).29 The often-astonishing lack of iconographic differentiation in sixth- and early fifth-century Greek images as exemplified by the Miletus Torso cannot, thus, be explained by a presumed incapacity of artists to mark individual identity through iconography. We must therefore presume that a lack of iconographic differentiation in certain cases was on purpose and not out of necessity. Must we then conclude that in Archaic and Early Classical imagery there was a general preference for blurred meaning, for approximate identification, for generalised and unspecific meaning; in short, that those differences which we look for with iconographic analysis would have simply been unimportant? Such a conclusion would be in line with the general tendency, in recent (one might say post-modern) research, to engage more willingly with semantic blurring than with precise meaning, and to regard the opening up of interpretations as a more noble pursuit than the fixing and ascertaining of interpretation. However, to reduce what we have observed to a general statement on the openness of images would lead to a fundamental misunderstanding of the phenomenon of iconographic under-determination in Archaic and Early Classical imagery discussed here. As set out above, the second point to bear in mind is that the differences in status and identity which iconography failed to clarify are not at all unimportant. There is no need to stress that the difference in social status between a respectable Athenian woman and a hetaera was considerable, and as a consequence, it did matter a lot whether in a specific picture, a female figure is understood as a hetaera or not. This is all the truer for the difference between man and god, and identifying a figure as a man or a god in a specific image would considerably alter the viewing experience.

27 Athens, Acropolis Museum 1332 – Agora Museum I 4571 – Epigraphical Museum 6520; ca. 510 BC; Schrader 1939, 301–2, no. 422, pl. 176. Further literature: Scholl 2006, 132 (with note 573), fig. 54; Comella 2002, 191, cat. no. Atene 15; Brouskari 1974, 142, no. 1332, fig. 251; Himmelmann 2001, 42–43. 28 Athens, National Museum 29; ca. 510 BC; see Karouzou 1968, 17, pl. 8; Richter 1961, 47, no. 67, pls. 155–58; Stewart 1990, figs. 145–146. 29 Athens, Kerameikos Museum P 1054; ca. 560–550 BC; see Richter 1961, 23–24, no. 31; on the swollen ear and the broken nose, see Laschinger 2009, 78–79 (with further literature in note 15), and Himmelmann 1994, 5, 68.

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Fig. 18.8: Votive relief, Epigraphical Museum, Athens. © DAI Athen; Negativ Nummer D-DAI-ATH-1969–1684; image credit: Hermann Wagner.

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Fig. 18.9: Grave stele of Aristion, National Museum, Athens.© BY-SA 2.0; image credit:

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Fig. 18.10: Grave stele with boxer, Kerameikos Museum, Athens. © BY-SA 3.0. Image credit: Sp!ros. .

Previously, it would have seemed self-evident to interpret the iconographic under-determination of a kouros as a consequence of the relative irrelevance of differences in identity for the viewing-experience of the statue when compared to the general values for which the male body stands. After what I have discussed, however, this seemingly-straightforward conclusion might sound less plausible. Before continuing with the iconographic analysis, it is worth mentioning that in Greek mythology and literature, there are plenty of parallels both for the difficulty to clearly discern man from god and to recognise social status or individual identity, and for the essential importance of these differentiations. In scenes of divine epiphany in Homer, for example, the certitude to face a divinity and not a mortal typically takes some time to be established. Several Greek myths show the potential tragic consequences of the failure to tell apart man from god. The Bacchae of Euripides is perhaps the most paradigmatic account in Greek literature of the fatal implications of the failure to recognise divinity. Likewise, recognising social status and the possibility of failing to do

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so are important subject matters in Greek literature; arguably, this is a crucial theme in the Odyssey. In the earliest literature, not only does the proper recognition of differences in social status and between human and divine beings prove neither easy nor unimportant, but the seemingly more abstract difference between generic and individual identity is already palpable. In battle descriptions in the Iliad a difference is drawn between the masses of warriors from either side confronting each other, and the great individual heroes, standing out through their appearance and their deeds in the middle of the battle. But the possibility of mistaking someone for someone else still exists, like in the case of Patroclus’ Achillean travesty. After this very brief escapade into literature, I will now return to matters of Greek imagery. I would like to propose another understanding of such iconographic under-determination, one that allocates an essential role to the viewer as the true agent of identification. Neither the iconographically under-determined figure nor the well-determined figure possess their identity as intrinsic information, but in either case, the figure obtains an identity by the viewer’s act of identification. I would also argue that the iconographically under-determined figure aspires as much to a specification of its identity as the iconographically well-determined figure. The difference does not lie in the grade of individuality and specificity that a figure can convey, but in the point to which its iconography directs the viewers in their recognition. By stating this, I do not call for a case of “anything goes” when identifying figures. Indeed, already from a very early period, there are images that command one single and highly specific identification of a figure to the viewer. This is especially true in the case of narrative iconography, a phenomenon first appearing in seventh century BC, the so-called “Orientalising” period. The figural scene on the neck of a seventh-century Cycladic relief pithos is an example of such an image where the viewers have only one way to make sense of what they see (Fig. 18.11).30 Until they recognise the two figures as Perseus beheading the monster Medusa, there is no reasonable explanation for the figure on the left turning his head away from what he is doing, and the monster seemingly not reacting to her imminent assassination; here, Perseus is unable to look at his victim without being petrified, and Medusa cannot see her enemy, made invisible by Hades’ cap. Interestingly, the Gorgo Medusa does not yet possess her typical appearance, familiar from later depictions, but rather resembles a centaur with her body a combination of human and horse. The wellknown monster-type used for the depiction of Gorgons throughout antiquity

30 Paris, Louvre Ca 795; Boeotian relief pithos, seventh century BC; see most recently Topper 2010 (with earlier literature).

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Fig. 18.11: Relief pithos, Musée du Louvre, Paris. Public Domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen .

appears for the first time only in the late seventh century BC.31 Therefore, at the time when the Cycladic relief pithos was made, there existed no standardised method of depicting the monster or, as in art historical terms, a fixed iconography of the Gorgon. Consequently, identifying the figures as Perseus and Medusa in this picture cannot result from an independent recognition of individual figures by specific marks of identification, but instead comes as the solution to the viewer’s response to the scene as a whole, encompassing the interaction between the figures. This naturally presupposes the viewer’s acquaintance with the myth of Perseus and Medusa, but also, and more fundamentally, that the viewer would attempt identification at all. Indeed, the naming of the figures can resolve the picture’s aporia if and only if the viewer fell

31 See e.g. the Nessos Amphora: Athens, National Museum 1002; ABV 4.1, 679, Para 2.6: Nessos Painter (name vase); ca. 600 BC; BA 300025.

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into aporia in the first place. Because the figures do not have an identity made explicit by means of a clear and unequivocal iconographic mark, the viewing of the picture starts on the grounds of anonymous figures which gain their identity only through the course of the viewing process. In this Early Archaic picture, the identity of the individual figures is thus not a given parameter for viewing the image but the viewing is nonetheless oriented towards identification, resulting in an unambiguous individualisation of the figures and their actions. The identity of figures does not condition the viewing experience, but the viewing experience conditions the identification of figures. Besides such examples of images which direct the process of viewing towards a figure’s single unambiguous identity, there are other images where the identification of a figure is completely arbitrary. This is the case for the aforementioned amphora by Oltos (Fig. 18.5). The iconography of the two figures surely does not preclude identification as Achilles and Briseis, but it certainly does not direct the viewing of these figures exclusively towards that identification. Many other identities would have been possible as well. It would even be more accurate to say that those other identifications are still possible, despite the existence of name inscriptions. Indeed, these now-faded inscriptions running alongside the figures, painted in a thin white line on the dark background of the vase, certainly used to be more visible than they are now; nevertheless, the small size of the letters would not have allowed the inscription to be read easily by a viewer lying on his kline. These inscriptions, which are tiny as is common with painted Attic vase-inscriptions, are primarily intended to be seen. The next step, deciphering them, is also of course important, but is reserved for a second glance, when a viewer who is already interested in them takes the time to have a closer look at the picture. But at this stage, the process of viewing and identification will already have started, and the inscription’s identification will only supplement this process, possibly as a confirmation of the viewer’s own identification, or else as another, but not necessarily more authoritative, suggestion of identification. In that sense, the primary function of the name inscription, which is more visible than readable at first glance, does not consist in fixing the identity of a figure where the iconography fails to do so, but in initiating the process of viewing and identification. Or, put differently, one could say that by inscribing names next to the figures, the painter of the vase acts as its first viewer. As a matter of fact, the inscribing of vases happened at the end of the working process, when all the painting of the figures had been finished – and I would not exclude the possibility that Oltos did not decide while he was painting whether he would call the figures Achilles and Briseis, or Hector and Andromache, or whether he would give them names at all.

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One category of inscription is particularly informative in this context: the so-called nonsense inscriptions.32 In their graphical arrangement in the picture field, they resemble normal inscriptions, but when trying to decipher them, they turn out to be a meaningless sequence of letters. These inscriptions suggest the existence of a name and thus of an individual identity, but they do not specify it or make it explicit, but leave that task instead to the viewer. Here, there cannot be any doubt that the primary function of the inscription does not consist in making explicit to the viewer a piece of underlying information in order to facilitate its interpretation, but inversely in inviting them to feed the picture with additional information not previously included in the picture. Using Richard Wollheim’s distinction of seeing as and seeing in,33 the viewers shall not see the figure as someone specific, but they shall see in the figure some specific identity and act as a productive viewer who creates identity by viewing, instead of acting as a receptive viewer who only recognises an identity intrinsic to the figure. Another aspect of name inscriptions in Attic vase-painting is just as informative regarding their general function and semantic status. It is the large number of names inscribed next to figures that are perfectly recognisable by their iconography. This is the case, for example, on an oenochoe with Herakles and Apollo struggling over the tripod (Fig. 18.12).34 As we can see here, the productive act of identification to which the inscription invites the viewer is not futile even though the identity of the figures is indeed well-defined by their iconography. Even if the iconography does not leave any other reasonable way of naming the figures, the identification strongly suggested by the image must still be ratified by the productive act of viewing, to which the inscription invites the viewer. In some rather rare cases, the inscribed name next to a figure suggests a most improbable identity. On the famous krater of Euphronios in Munich showing a luxurious symposion, one of the banqueters is named SMIKROS by inscription, the name of a contemporaneous vase-painter colleague of Euphronios (Fig. 18.13).35 There are some other examples of inscribed vase-painters’ 32 Fundamental on nonsense-inscriptions still Lissarrague 1985, 82, and Lissarrague 1992, 195–96. See more recently Immerwahr 2007 and Pappas 2011 and 2012. 33 For Wollheim’s theory of pictorial representation, see Wollheim 1980, 205–26; Wollheim 1987, 46–77; Wollheim 1998. For introducing Wollheim’s distinction between seeing in and seeing as into the study of Greek art, see Neer 2002, especially 48–49; Grethlein 2017, 149–190. 34 Paris, Louvre F 341; ABV 176; ABL 61: connected with the Taleides Painter; ca. 530–20 BC; BA 301142. 35 Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen 9400; ARV2 1619.3bis, 1705, 1699, Para 322: Euphronios; ca. 510–500 BC; see Neer 2002, 111–17; BA 275007. On the proper understanding of these vase-painter name inscriptions, there is an ongoing discussion. For more recent proposi-

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Fig. 18.12: Oinochoe of the Taleides Painter, Musée du Louvre, Paris. Public domain; image credit: Marie-Lan Nguyen.

names on Late Archaic Attic vases. There is a much-debated issue within Classical archaeology as to how we ought to interpret the presence of such lowerclass artisans among the Athenian elite: whether it is to be taken as a realistic depiction, and whether it allows us to speculate about the rising social status of artisans in democratic Athens. No matter what answer one might give to these questions, it is clear that reading these banausic names in a depiction of the Athenian leisure-class culture must have contradicted expectations, or even have been somehow provocative in the context of the elite symposion where such a vessel would have been in use.

tions (with earlier literature), see e.g. Giuliani 1991, 14–17; Neer 2002, 87–134 (with review by G. Hedreen 2003); Topper 2012, 142–55; Filser 2017, 162–168; Gerleigner [forthcoming].

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Fig. 18.13: Krater Euphronios, Staatliche Antikensammlungen, Munich. © Staatliche Antikensammlungen München.

It is well imaginable that not all the symposiasts assembled around this krater would have accepted such a bold identification. But apparently, to give that somehow “wrong” name to a figure decorating the central krater, a name challenging social order, seems to have been acceptable in the playful context of the symposion. The fundamental reason why such a parvenu’s name on a krater did not harm the decorum of a drinking party of the Athenian elite is that the naming of a figure by a vase-painter’s inscription was not authoritative. After all, the inscribed name did not have the status of objective information intrinsic to the image, but constituted in itself nothing more than the vasepainter’s contribution to the productive process of viewing and identification with which other viewers might or might not agree.

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This does not however mean that name inscriptions are not to be taken seriously. Within the imagery of the symposion, the surprise created by the unexpected artisan’s name is perfectly in line with the general aim of playful complexity in the figural decoration of these luxury vessels.36 In the public space, the naming of a figure by inscription within an image had the potential to become a much more serious issue. We know of one specific case in fifthcentury Athens which illustrates this issue very well. Aeschines tells us about a public discussion on whether the figure of Miltiades in a great image of the Battle of Marathon in the Stoa Poikile in the Athenian agora should be named by inscription or not.37 In the end, the demos refused that honour to the Athenian leader since it would have contradicted the equality of all citizens in the democratic polis. From a modern perspective, this fierce debate seems somehow futile. Apparently, the figure could be easily interpreted as Miltiades by iconography alone. Why then is the question of inscribing or not inscribing his name such a major issue? If the name inscription would have simply made explicit what is already intrinsic to the image, the debate would indeed have been futile. It becomes an issue worth discussing precisely because the identity of the figure is not intrinsic to the image and its iconography. In our question of viewing and identification, what we learn from the issue of Miltiades’ naming on the painting of the Battle of Marathon in the public space of the Stoa Poikile is that a figure’s identity is ultimately less dependent on its iconography than on the consensus of its viewers. It can become the object of deliberation of its viewers for the simple reason that the viewers are the true agents of identification. At this point, I will try to reach a conclusion. Within a general framework, where identification is anyway conceived as subject to the viewer’s agency, the level of iconographic determination in a specific image becomes a matter of pictorial strategy. For both strategic options – the well-determined and the under-determined image – there are plenty of examples already from a very early period. Between these two options, the difference does not necessarily lie in the degree of specificity that a figure’s identity finally gains through the process of viewing and identification, but to a far greater extent in the degree to which the figure’s iconography tries to orient that process, or else to which the underdetermined iconography leaves to the viewer the task of specifying identity and signification. Both in the case of the funeral statue of Kroisos (Fig. 18.14)38 and 36 On the symposiac culture of duplicity, see Neer 2002, 14–23, 32–43. 37 On the debate about the naming of Miltiades by inscription, see Hölscher 1973, 55–57. 38 Athens, National Museum, inv. 3851: see Richter 1960, 118–19, figs. 395–6. Further bibliography can be found in Meyer / Brüggemann 2007, 199, no. 300. For the inscribed base, see Kissas 2000, 54–55, no. 20, figs. 28–30.

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Fig. 18.14: Kroisos kouros, National Museum, Athens. Public Domain; image credit: Mountain .

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in the case of the grave stele of Aristion (Fig. 18.9), the viewer is encouraged to see the values of a good warrior in the figure of the deceased. For Aristion, this is already clear from the iconography, but for Kroisos, the archaeologist needs the inscription on the base to discern this. The combination of a nude kouros without any attribute, with an inscription specifying the warrior qualities of the deceased, is often attested. The inscribed base of the grave monument of Xenokles,39 which most probably bore a kouros, too, is another example: although the inscription invites the viewer to look at the spear bearer, the corresponding statue did not feature that spear or any other weapon. From a modern perspective, it is most surprising that in Greek imagery, especially of the Archaic age, the choice fell so often in favour of the unspecific, leaving to the viewer the task of introducing differences and differentiation.

Abbreviations ABL ABV ARV2 Para BA CVA CEG IG I³

C. H. Haspels (1936), Attic Black-figure Lekythoi, Paris. J. D. Beazley (1956), Attic Black-figure Vase-Painters, Oxford. J. D. Beazley (1968), Attic Red-figure Vase-Painters, 2Oxford. J. D. Beazley (1971), Paralipomena: additions to Attic black-figure vase-painters and to Attic red-figure vase-painters, Oxford. Beazley Archive Vase Number (online database: www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/). Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum. P. A. Hansen (1983), Carmina epigraphica Graeca saeculorum VIII–V a. Chr. n., Berlin. Inscriptiones Graecae, vol. I (ed. tertia), Berlin 1981–1998.

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39 Athens, Kerameikos Museum Mag. Inv. I 425; IG I³ 1200; CEG Nr. 19; ca. 550–540 BC; see Kissas 2000, 39–40, no. 4, figs. 7–8 (with further bibliography).

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Bol, R. (2006), “Der Torso von Milet und ein Kopf strengen Stils im Museum Balat”, in: R. Bierig / V. Brinkmann / U. Schlotzhauer / B. F. Weber (eds.), Maiandros. Festschrift für Volkmar von Graeve, Munich, 31–40. Brinkmann, V. (2003), Die Polychromie der archaischen und frühklassischen Skulptur, Munich. Brinkmann, V. (2003) (ed.), Bunte Götter: Die Farbigkeit antiker Skulptur. Exhibition Munich, Glyptothek. Brinkmann, V. / A. Scholl (2010) (eds.), Bunte Götter. Die Farbigkeit antiker Skulptur. Exhibition Berlin, Pergamonmuseum. Brouskari, M. S. (1974), The Acropolis Museum: a Descriptive Catalogue, Athens. Bundrick, S. D. (2012), “Housewives, Hetairai and the ambiguity of Gender in Attic Vase Painting”, in: Phoenix 66, 11–35. Cameron A. / A Kuhrt (1993) (eds.), Images of Women in Antiquity, London. Carastro, M. (2009) (ed.), L’Antiquité en couleurs. Catégories, pratiques, représentations, Grenoble. Catoni, M. L. (2010), Bere vino puro: immagini del simposio, Milano. Clarke, J. R. (1996), “Deconstruction Roman Texts, Viewers, and Art (Review of Elsner 1995)”, in: Journal of Roman Archaeology 9, 375–380. Comella, A. (2002), I rilievi votivi greci di periodo arcaico e classico: diffusione, ideologia, committenza, Bari. Deonna, W. (1909), Les “Apollon Archaïques”, Geneva. Dietrich, N. (2013), “Unvollständige Bilder im spätarchaischen und frühklassischen Athen”, in: Antike Kunst 56, 37–55. Elsner, J. (1995), Art and the Roman Viewer: the Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity, Cambridge. Elsner, J. (2007), Roman Eyes: Visuality and Subjectivity in Art and Text, Princeton. Filser, W. (2017), Die Elite Athens auf der attischen Luxuskeramik, Berlin. Formigli, E. (1999) (ed.), I grandi bronzi antichi. Le fonderie e le tecniche di lavorazione dall’età arcaica al Rinascimento, Siena. Franssen, J. (2011) Votiv und Repräsentation. Statuarische Weihungen archaischer Zeit aus Samos und Attika. Heidelberg. Gerleigner, G. (forthcoming), Writing on Archaic Athenian Pottery. Studies on the Relationship between Images and Inscriptions on Greek Vases. Giuliani, L. (1991) “Euphronios. Ein Maler im Wandel”, in: L. Giuliani / W.-D. Heilmeyer (eds.), Euphronios der Maler, Milano, 14–24. Grand-Clément, A. (2011), La fabrique des couleurs: Histoire du paysage sensible des Grecs anciens (VIIIe début du Ve siècle av. n. è.). De l’archéologie à l’histoire, Paris. Grethlein, J. (2017), Aesthetic Experience and Classical Antiquity. The Significance of Form in Narratives and Pictures, Cambridge. Hamiaux, M. (2001), Les sculptures grecques I, 2nd edition, Paris. Hausmann, U. (1947), “Die Apollonsonnette Rilkes und ihre plastischen Urbilder” in: Kunstwerk und Deutung, Heft 2. Havelock, C. M. (1995), The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors. A Historical Review of the Female Nude in Greek Art, Ann Arbor. Hedreen, G. (2003), “Review of Neer 2002”, Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2003 (http:// bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2003/2003–03–20.html). Himmelmann, N. (1994), Realistische Themen in der griechischen Kunst der archaischen und klassischen Zeit, Jahrbuch des DAI, Ergänzungsheft 28, Berlin.

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Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit”, in: Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 104, 157–257. Reichardt, B. (2007), ”Mythische Mütter. Thetis und Eos in der attischen Bilderwelt des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr.”, in: M. Meyer (ed.), Besorgte Mütter und sorglose Zecher: mythische Exempel in der Bilderwelt Athens, Vienna, 13–98. Reinsberg, C. (1989), Ehe, Hetärentum und Knabenliebe im antiken Griechenland, Munich. Richter, G. M. A. (1961), The Archaic Gravestones of Attica, London. Richter, G. M. A. (1970), Kouroi, archaic Greek youths, London. Schrader, H. (1939), Die archaischen Marmorbildwerke der Akropolis, Frankfurt. Stewart, A. (1990), Greek Sculpture. An Exploration, London. Stewart, A., (1997), Art, Desire, and the Body in Ancient Greece, Cambridge. Svenbro, J. (1988), Phrasikleia: anthropologie de la lecture en Grèce ancienne, Paris. Topper, K. (2010), “Maidens, Fillies and the Death of Medusa on a SeventhCentury pithos”, in: JHS 130, 109–119. Topper, K. (2012), The Imagery of the Athenian Symposium, Cambridge. Wollheim, R. (1980), Art and its Objects, 2nd edition, Cambridge. Wollheim, R. (1987), Painting as an Art, Princeton. Wollheim, R. (1998), “On Pictorial Representation”, Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 56, 217–226.

List of Contributors Emmanuela Bakola is Associate Professor of Ancient Greek Language and Literature at the University of Warwick. She has published a monograph (Cratinus and the Art of Comedy, OUP 2010) and several articles and chapters, which explore the relationship of ancient comedy to other genres. Her current project uses cultural anthropology and theatre space theory and argues that Aeschylean dramaturgy, imagery, stage action, and engagement with cult and ritual show that Aeschylean theatre is profoundly preoccupied with the human relationship to the earth and its resources. Nikolaus Dietrich is Junior Professor of Classical Archaeology at Heidelberg University; he was previously based at the Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin (2008–2015). His research concentrates on Archaic and Classical Greek art, above all in the fields of vase-painting and sculpture; he is the author of Figur ohne Raum? Bäume und Felsen in der attischen Vasenmalerei des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (2010) and Das Attribut als Problem: Eine bildwissenschaftliche Untersuchung zur griechischen Kunst (forthcoming, 2017). P. J. Finglass is Henry Overton Wills Professor of Greek and Head of the Department of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Bristol. He has published editions of Sophocles’ Oedipus the King (2018), Ajax (2011) and Electra (2007), of Stesichorus (2014), and of Pindar’s Pythian Eleven (2007), with Cambridge University Press. Jonas Grethlein holds the Chair in Greek Literature at Heidelberg and directs the ERC group “Experience and Teleology in Ancient Narrative”. His books include The Greeks and their Past (Cambridge, 2010); Experience and Teleology (Cambridge, 2013); Die Odyssee. Homer und die Kunst des Erzählens (Munich, 2017); Aesthetic Experiences and Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, 2017). Rosie Harman is Lecturer in Greek Historiography at University College London. Her research focuses on cultural representation in Classical Greek historiography, and the construction of ethnic and political relations. Recent publications have examined the visual in Xenophon. She is currently working on a monograph on the ideological implications of the visual in Xenophon’s historical narratives. Ekaterina Haskins is Professor of Rhetoric at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, USA. She studies rhetoric as an intellectual and pedagogical tradition and a practice that shapes individual and collective identities. Her research contributes to three areas of scholarship: the history of rhetoric, public memory, and rhetorics of display. She is the author of two books, Logos and Power in Isocrates and Aristotle (2004) and Popular Memories: Commemoration, Participatory Culture, and Democratic Citizenship (2015). She has published numerous articles and book chapters on the history of rhetoric, public memory, and visual culture.

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List of Contributors

Alexandros Kampakoglou is Lecturer in Greek Language and Literature at Trinity College, Oxford. His research concerns Hellenistic poetry, focusing on its interaction with archaic lyric poetry and intercultural traditions. He has published papers on the poetry of Theocritus, Callimachus, and Bacchylides. He is currently preparing a monograph on the “Reception of Pindar in Hellenistic poetry”. Anna A. Lamari is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. She is the author of Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae (De Gruyter, 2010) and Reperforming Greek Tragedy: Theater, Politics, and Cultural Mobility in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC (De Gruyter, 2017). She has published articles on tragedy, narratology, historiography, and Hellenistic poetry. She is also the editor of Reperformances of Drama in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC: Authors and Contexts (Trends in Classics, Special Issue 7.2, 2015). Françoise Létoublon is Professor of Greek Literature and Linguistics at the Université Stendhal (Grenoble). She is the author of Il allait, pareil à la nuit. Les verbes de mouvement en grec: supplétisme et aspect verbal (Paris 1985) and of Les lieux communs du roman (Leiden 1993). She has edited La langue et les textes en grec ancien. Colloque Pierre Chantraine (Amsterdam 1993), Impressions d’îles (Toulouse 1996), Hommage à Milman Parry. Le style formulaire de l’épopée homérique et la théorie de l’oralité poétique (Amsterdam 1997), Homère en France après la Querelle (Paris 1999). She is currently working on Homeric epic, Oral poetry, mythology, and the Greek novel. Helen Lovatt is Professor of Classics at the University of Nottingham and has published widely on epic and vision, especially The Epic Gaze (Cambridge, 2013) and Epic Visions (ed. with Caroline Vout, Cambridge 2013). She is currently writing a cultural history of the Argonaut myth and working on Classics and children’s literature, and trauma and resilience in Virgil’s Aeneid. Felix K. Maier studied Latin, Greek and History in Eichstätt, Freiburg, and Oxford. He wrote his PhD on Polybius in 2011 and his Habilitation on the emperor in the late 4th century A.D. in 2016. He is an Assistant Professor at the Department for Ancient History at the University of Freiburg and member of the Academy of Sciences (Heidelberg). Claudia Michel holds a PhD in Classics from the University of Freiburg (2013). She is the author of Homer und die Tragödie. Zu den Bezügen zwischen Odyssee und Orestie-Dramen (Tübingen, 2014). Her research concerns Homeric epic, Greek drama, intertextuality, and history of science. She is currently working on transtextual techniques in Aristophanic Comedy at the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft at the University of Freiburg. Andrea Nightingale is Professor of Classics at Stanford University. She is the author of Genres in Dialogue: Plato and the Construct of Philosophy; Spectacles of Truth: Theoria in its Cultural Context; and Once out of Nature: Augustine on Time and the Body. She also co-edited with David Sedley Ancient Models of Mind: Studies in Human and Divine Rationality. Anna Novokhatko is Assistant Professor of Classics at the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität of Freiburg. She is the author of The Invectives of Sallust and Cicero (Berlin, 2009). Her research interests include Sicilian and Attic comedy, the history of Greek and Roman

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scholarship with special attention to the development of linguistic and textual-critical vocabulary. She is currently preparing a monograph (Habilitation project) on the development of Greek 5th cent. BCE scholarship based mainly on philosophic, rhetoric, and comic texts. Christian Orth is Privatdozent at the University of Freiburg and a Research Associate of the Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften in the project “Kommentierung der Fragmente der griechischen Komödie”. He is the author of commentaries on the fragments of Strattis (2009) and other comic poets active about 400 BC (3 vols., 2013–2015), and on four fragmentary plays of Aristophanes including Aiolosikon and Babylonioi (2017). Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis is Lecturer in Classics at the University of St Andrews. She publishes on material culture and Greek Literature of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, particularly non elite voices in the areas of religion, travel and the body. She is the author of ‘Truly beyond Wonders’. Aelius Aristides and the Cult of Asklepios (Oxford University Press, 2010). Aelius Aristides and the Cult of Asklepios. She also works on Classical Reception in the C19th Ottoman empire. Michael Squire is Reader in Classical Art at King’s College London; he has held fellowships at Cambridge, Cologne, Harvard, Munich, Stanford and the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin. His books include Image and Text in Graeco-Roman Antiquity (2009), The Art of the Body: Antiquity and its Legacy (2011), The Iliad in a Nutshell: Visualizing Epic on the Tabulae Iliacae (2011) and Sight and the Ancient Senses (ed. 2016). Melina Tamiolaki is Assistant Professor at the University of Crete (Department of Philology) and specializes in Greek historiography. She is the author of Liberté et esclavage chez les historiens grecs classiques (Paris 2010). She has also edited the following volumes: (with Antonis Tsakmakis) Thucydides Between History and Literature (Berlin 2013), Comic Wreath. New Trends in the Study of Ancient Greek Comedy (Rethymnon 2014 – in modern Greek), and Methodological Perspectives in Classical Studies. Old Problems and New Challenges (Heraklion 2017 – in modern Greek).

Subject Index Achilles 3–4, 7–11, 15, 17 n. 62, 18–19, 21– 27, 92 n. 17, 100, 110, 114, 132–33, 135– 36, 474–75, 483 Achilles’ shield 23, 132–33, 357–403 Actaeon 197–98 Aeetes 90–91, 97, 106, 114 n. 9, 115, 125, 137 Aeneas 19–20, 90 n. 13 Aeneas’ shield 20, 94 n. 22, 366, 385–86 n. 62 aesthetics 23, 62, 68 n. 28, 73, 84, 88 n. 2, 101, 104 n. 40, 188, 215, 219, 246, 249, 266, 331–52, 393, 444 agora 224, 238 aidōs 9 aisthanomai 293–94 aisthēsis 68 n. 28, 219, 342 n. 19 Ajax 20, 77, 400 n. 106 Ajax’s shield 20 alaos/alaoō 40, 63 n. 15, 79 Alcibiades 215, 281, 289 altar 45, 96, 99, 192, 453–57 anatomical words 20, 65–67, 84 anthemoeis 422 aoidos 23, 78–85 apatē 254–55, 260, 376–77, 402 Aphrodite 12, 36, 67, 80, 84, 103, 129, 131– 33, 136, 141–42, 154, 218, 222–23, 263, 422 n. 10, 426, 428 n. 34, 443 n. 65 apodexis 272, 274 Apollo 8, 15, 22, 103, 115, 117–20, 134, 192, 348, 464, 469–70, 484 apparition 165, 168–74, 177, 182, 373 appearance 4, 15, 27, 34, 36, 38, 80, 114– 37, 141, 143, 145–46, 150, 165 n. 11, 168–75, 182–83, 188 n. 3, 212, 216, 218, 224, 264, 282, 292–98, 308–28, 340, 394, 422, 430, 481 Argo 99–103, 106, 119–21, 125 Argonauts 88–111, 113–37, 225 Argos (hero) 96, 107, 116–17 Argos (dog of Odysseus) 40 aristeia 13, 18, 48 n. 36, 125, 135 n. 113, 136 Artemis 36, 100, 115, 131–32, 197, 418–59 Asclepius 211, 225–28 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-024

atasthaliai 63, 74, 76, 84 atē 75–77 Athena 15, 22, 33, 39, 41, 72, 74–75, 77, 79 n. 62, 83, 102, 120, 123, 126–27, 132– 33, 176, 249, 275, 277, 386 n. 63, 387 n. 66, 391 n. 81, 475–76 Athens 208, 237–38, 245–63, 265–67, 275, 280–82, 466, 485, 487 athreō 47, 72 audience 4, 7–8, 11, 13, 15–16, 18, 21–23, 77, 92, 95, 99, 101, 113–37, 141, 144, 148–49, 151, 157, 164, 166–67, 173–74, 176, 181, 187, 189 n. 8, 190, 194–95, 197, 200, 205, 208, 210–12, 221, 235, 237, 239, 245, 248, 249–59, 264, 266– 67, 274, 277, 280 n. 29, 282, 284–85, 365, 369 n. 26, 377, 396, 398, 428 augazō 128, 133 autopsy 272, 322 bird’s-eye view 3–4, 97 blemma 225 blephara 64–65, 77, 225, 227–28 blepō 6, 206, 208, 210, 212–14, 219, 221, 224–25, 227 Blepsidemos 224 n. 54 (> blepō) Blepyros 224 (> blepō), 227–28 blinding 46, 49, 53–55, 62–70, 83–85, 113, 145, 225–26 blindness 46, 61–63, 69–72, 74–80, 82–85, 145, 217–18, 225–28, 294, 358 Callirhoe 155–57 Calypso 36–38, 67 n. 26, 134 cartography s. mapping Cassandra 165–68, 170, 180 charis 126–30 chiaroscuro 15, 429 Circe 46–47, 97, 120, 134 Cithaeron 194–95 Cleon 279–81 cloak 91 n. 16, 93, 120, 123, 125–26, 130– 34, 142, 211, 366 clothes dedications 418–59 Clytemnestra 168–71, 173, 177–82

498

Subject Index

Colchis 90, 95–96, 126, 129 Cyclope s. Polyphemus Cyclopes 63–65 Cyrus 310–28 daimōn 167, 171, 174, 176 n. 33, 177–80 (oikonomos d.), 180–82 darkness 62 (vs. light), 69, 82, 88–94, 103– 8, 111, 163, 166, 171, 222 (vs. light), 339 deixis 207–9, 225, 233–41, 393, 424, 428, s. epideixis Demodocus 62–63, 78–84 derkō/derkomai 3 n. 2, 6, 102, 217–18, 219 n. 36 Dicaeopolis 205–6, 211 Diomedes 20, 22, 114, 125 n. 60, 135 n. 113 Dionysus 132, 187–88, 191–96, 198–99, 209–10, 220–21, 226 n. 64 dokeō 308–19, 322, 324–28, 391 n. 82, 395–96 dokēsis 292–93 doxa 259, 309–10, 325–27 dramatisation 13, 15, 18–19 dreams 11, 26–27, 72 n. 39, 102, 107 n. 45, 129–30, 165–66, 183, 451 eidōlon 5 n. 12, 144–45, 165, 183, 188 n. 3, 374 n. 43, 394 n. 88 eidos 145 eikones 370 ekkyklema 164, 165 n. 7, 167, 171, 174, 176, 180 ekphrasis 27 n. 99, 35, 39–40, 43, 88 n. 2, 98, 133, 357–403, 420 ektuphloō 225 enargeia 8, 11, 34, 164, 282, 303–4, 357, 358 n. 5, 373–75, 384, 395, 397–98, 400–1 eoikōs 297 epideixis 245–49, 251, 263, 266, 290 n. 4, 303 n. 46, 316, 321, 373, 375, 424 n. 12 epiklopos 44–45 epiphany 88 n. 2, 89, 93, 101–3, 108, 113, 119–28, 132–34, 136, 480 ereuthō/eruthainomai 91–92, 128–30, 133 Erinyes 163–83 Eros/erōs 91 n. 16, 97 n. 28, 101, 109, 118– 19, 123, 126, 128–36, 141, 150, 157, 254,

260–66, 274, 422–26, 433, 435, 437, 447 eusynoptic 3–4, 23 n. 82 exommatoō 225 eye(s) 5, 7–9, 10–11, 14, 26 n. 95, 33–55, 63–68, 70–73, 75, 83–84, 88 n. 2; 91– 92, 97–99, 105, 113, 132, 143, 145, 150, 181, 199–200, 208–9, 212 n. 18, 213 n. 21, 214–19, 221–29, 256, 261, 273, 276 n. 19, 282, 316–17, 322–23, 336, 351 n. 47, 357 n. 4, 359, 362–63, 373– 77, 389–90, 393, 396, 400, 430, 435, 445 eye-cups 52 eye-desease 83 n. 75, 211, 221, 226, 228 eyesight 46–47, 53, 62, 77–78, 134, 145, 212 n. 18, 224 n. 54, 228, 344 eye witness 211, 279, 285, 286 n. 50 film and cinema 18, 34, 89, 208, 210 n. 11 formulaic language 3, 9 n. 32, 16–17, 18 n. 63, 20 n. 69, 21–22, 35–36, 38, 41– 43, 47, 52, 66 n. 23, 122 n. 45, 124 n. 58, 212, 302 n. 42, 344 n. 23, 373 n. 41 gaze 3–4, 33–55, 72 n. 41, 84, 88–111, 113, 115–17, 118 n. 24, 119–21, 123, 125, 128–31, 136–37, 140–57, 205, 207 n. 6, 209–10, 213–17, 221 n. 42, 227, 229, 254, 257, 260–66, 274, 277 n. 19, 279, 280, 293, 317, 320, 348, 390, 418, 468–69 glamōn 226–27 glēnē 64–65 god’s-eye view 340 gorgoneion 53 Gorgo Medusa 53, 481–82 Gorgons 54–55, 167, 173, 481–82 graphikē 363, 369, 370, 372, 386 n. 63 Hades 54, 134 n. 106, 163, 165 (Aidēs > aidein), 166, 180, 220 (Aidēs > a-idein), 481 hallucinations 75–77, 84, 173 Hector 3, 13 n. 47, 15–20, 22–23, 26–27, 93–94, 100, 110, 114, 130, 135–36, 156, 308, 358 n. 5, 483

Subject Index

Hecuba 151, 156 Helen 11, 36, 129 n. 79, 132 n. 101, 140–57, 245–68 Helios/hēlios 41, 48, 49, 75, 108, 115, 192, 219, 222–23 Hephaestus 23, 102, 106, 126, 133, 135, 359, 365–68, 385, 387, 389, 390 n. 78, 392, 398 n. 100, 399, 400 n. 105 Hera 35–6, 97, 100, 102, 104, 106, 123, 126, 130, 134–35 Heracles 43–44, 103, 115 n. 11, 117–18, 120 n. 34, 122–24, 129, 134–35, 155–56, 213, 220–21, 261–62, 265, 424, 475–76 heroism 35, 40, 49, 52, 94, 106 n. 43, 113, 115 n. 11, 118, 121 (poetics of h.), 128, 133–34, 136 hērōs 115 n. 11, 121, 122 n. 50, 134 Hesperids 98 horaō 4, 5, 41, 207–10, 218–21, 224–25, 235, 279, 282–83, 311, 321, 336, 358, 362, 393, 399 horatos 219–20, 336 hupodra idōn 8, 41–43, 212 hybris 63, 74, 76–77, 84, 272–79 Hylas 93 n. 18, 101, 127–29, 131, 133–35 Hypsipyle 109, 113, 126, 128, 130, 132–34, 136 iconography 52, 55, 188, 249, 418, 433–35, 437, 457, 466, 470, 475–84, 487–89 imagination 11–12, 16, 17 n. 60, 26 n. 95, 62, 65, 164, 165 n. 11, 176, 178, 208–9, 213, 216, 245–68 (reimagination), 294, 350–51, 357, 359, 368, 376, 394 n. 88, 399, 439, 455 insight 61, 101, 281, 292, 296, 304 n. 50, 357, 376, 399 n. 104 intertextuality 104, 129, 131–33, 187–200 (visual i.), 217 n. 30, 218 n. 35, 219 n. 37, 221, 225–26 invisibility 12, 23, 35, 47, 55, 79, 163–83, 220, 222, 254–55, 280 n. 29, 289–304, 321–23, 327, 336, 342, 350, 481 Iris 102 Ithaca 33–40, 49, 52, 83 n. 75 Jason 90–95, 101–4, 108–10, 113–37, 366

499

kallos 126, 150, 212, 245, 264, 316, 334 kleos 89, 115 n. 11, 135, 473 korē/kourē (“pupil of the eye”) 67, 222, 225 kosmos 253, 257, 341, 344–46, 368 n. 24, 398 n. 100 kuklōps 63, 67 lampros 3 n. 2, 114 n. 8, 131, 222–25, 283, 324, 339–40, 345, 348 laō 39–40 leussō 6, 38, 91, 108, 119–20, 170, 217–18 light 41, 62, 66 n. 23, 67, 90–94, 103–8, 111, 124, 134, 163, 219–20, 222–24, 283, 339, 341, 348, 351, 387 n. 66, 388 linguistic features 4, 16–17, 63–64, 83, 135, 207 n. 5, 241, 388, 401 locus amoenus 37 Lycurgus (of Thrace) 62, 190–92, 194, 196, 198–200 Lynceus 108, 134 Lyssa 187, 196–98 Maenads 132, 187, 192–97, 199, 426 mapping and cartography 7, 96–97, 111, 205, 207–9, 209, 229, 235 marmarugē 92, 348 Medea 88 n. 2, 90–96, 102, 104–6, 108–10, 113, 115, 118, 120 n. 34, 125–36 Medusa s. Gorgo Medusa Menelaus 11–12, 22, 142–44, 146–48, 151– 55 mēnis 8 mimēsis 8, 376 n. 52, 387 n. 64 mirroring 3, 23–25, 171, 174–76, 189, 217, 228, 367, 387 n. 68, 393 n. 86, 449, 456 monument(s) 421, 439–41, 442–43, 476–77, 489 moon 67 n. 26, 90, 92, 98, 102–3, 128, 133–34, 283, 342–43, 347, 359 Mount Cithaeron s. Cithaeron Mount Dindymon 97, 101 Mount Olympus 23, 109, 125, 348 Muse(s) 7, 16, 63, 78–79, 143, 218 n. 32 mychos 164 narration 7–8, 10–12, 15–20, 22, 27, 33–35, 38, 43, 52, 55, 62–63, 65, 71–72, 80,

500

Subject Index

82, 84–85, 89, 92, 96, 100–1, 116–33, 149–51, 164, 190 n. 17, 191, 193–94, 198, 200, 205, 209–11, 216, 254, 261– 64, 271–87, 289–304, 310, 319–20, 333, 350, 369 n. 26, 373 n. 43, 385–89, 391, 393, 481 night 13 n. 51, 15, 20, 40–41, 67, 83, 90–91, 104–7, 148, 222, 283, 343–44, 347 nostos 35, 37, 38–39, 52, 73, 89, 110, 121, 122 n. 47 nymphs 36 (Calypso), 102, 109, 118 n. 24, 119–21, 131 Odysseus 33–55, 63–85, 89, 95, 111, 121 n. 45, 123, 126–31, 134, 308, 348, 362, 387 Oedipus 62, 165, 188 n. 3, 225 Ogygia 35–7 oikos 166, 170, 172, 178–80 *okw- 5–6 omen 76–7, 96, 183 omma 9, 66 n. 23, 77, 97, 105, 143, 150, 181, 214, 217–18, 222–24, 256, 317, 323, 336, 357 n. 4, 390 n. 77 ophrues 65, 68 n. 27, 83, 390 n. 77 ophthalmia 225 ophthalmology 65–66, 224, 227–29 ophthalmos 5, 6, 46–47, 63–64, 66, 72–73, 78–79, 91, 98, 143, 207–8, 212 n. 18, 215, 218–19, 221, 223, 225, 273, 316, 362, 390 n. 77 opsis 4, 73 n. 42, 146, 150, 217 n. 31, 254– 56, 258, 282–83, 293 n. 15, 344, 349, 373 Orestes 114 n. 8, 167, 170–76 Orpheus 98, 103, 110, 118 n. 20, 191–94 osse 4, 14, 20 n. 69, 47, 66 n. 23, 75, 79 n. 60, 83 n. 75, 99 outis 46 painting 187, 189–90, 195 n. 52, 256–57, 334–35, 339 n. 14, 340, 357–403, 429, s. vase painting panoptic view 35, 102, 283, 293 panorama 4, 207–9, 293, 454 paptainō 43–45, 47, 97, 117, 120 Paris 11–12, 36, 129 n. 79, 140–42, 147, 155, 255–56, 263, 265, 308

Peleus 21, 25, 102–6, 108 Pelias 21, 94, 116–17 Penelope 36, 39, 63, 70–73, 84, 127–28, 136 Pentheus 132, 164 n. 4, 190, 192–95, 197– 200 performance 37, 80, 119, 131, 133, 164, 172, 187, 189–90, 194–96, 198, 200, 205, 213, 216, 229, 246, 248–54, 256, 258, 262, 266, 333, 348, 350, 377 pēros 78 Perseus 53–54, 481–82 phainomai 309–11, 319–25, 328 phaneros 272, 319, 321–23 phantasia 359, 368 n. 24, 375–76, 399 n. 104, 400 Phineus 97, 101, 133 n. 103, 225 phōs 62, 220, 222–24 Ploutos 211, 225 n. 56, 226, 228 poikilia 39, 331–32, 339–41, 345, 347, 468 polis 227–28, 245, 247–52, 260, 262, 266, 267, 487 Polyxena 149–51 Polyphemus 46–47, 49, 53–55, 62–63, 66, 68–70, 80, 84, 225–26 porphureō 130 Priam 3, 7, 11, 12 n. 44, 23–27, 156 prokalizomai 19 rays/emissions of the eye 5 n. 12, 66–67, 219 n. 36, 222–23 recognition 63, 72, 73, 84, 234, 237–40, 481–82 relief(s) 257, 387 n. 64, 399, 400, 418, 452– 57, 476, 478, 481–82 Rembrandt 15 ritual/rites 8–10, 19, 80, 82 n. 72, 96, 99, 127, 194, 206, 248, 250, 338 n. 10, 425–26, 439, 449, 452, 454–57, 459 rizai 64–65 sanctuary 227–29 (s. of Asclepius), 418–59, esp. 446–50 (s. of Artemis) schēmata 334–35 Scheria 35–37 Scylla 46–47, 49, 72 n. 41 seeing 3, 7, 11, 15, 20, 23–27, 36, 38–40, 48, 49 ((not) s.), 54–55 (pictorial s.), 62

Subject Index

(not s.), 66 n. 23, 72, 113, 119, 128, 142, 151, 163–83, 205–29, 245–68 (s. and beeing seen), 272–77, 293, 301, 322, 331–35, 337, 351, 357–403, 484 (s. as vs. s. in) senses 3–4, 5 n. 12, 49, 68–69, 72 n. 40, 84, 94–95, 109–10, 217–20, 224, 229, 253, 331–52, 357, 418–59 shining 33, 49, 79 n. 60, 93, 114, 126, 129 n. 79, 131, 256, 260, 339, 348, 351 short-sightedness 62, 226, 286 sight 3, 4–6 (Homeric language of s.), 11, 27, 34–36, 39, 49, 53, 55 ((active) vs. (passive) s.), 62, 66 n. 23, 68 n. 28, 69, 72–73, 79, 83 n. 75, 84, 91, 97, 101, 105–6, 109–10, 120–21, 135, 140–45, 157, 164, 168, 172–73, 182–83, 205–12, 216–29, 251–52, 254, 256–57, 259, 267, 271–85, 301, 311, 322, 331, 333 n. 4, 334, 337, 341–42, 350, 357–403 (vs. insight), 419, 424–27, 434, 438–39, 441 similes 3, 13, 15, 20, 23–27, 40, 47–49, 65– 68, 70–73, 83–84, 92, 99–100, 105, 108, 114, 119, 128, 137, 222, 399 skēnē 163, 164 n. 4, 165, 167–68, 173–74, 183, 238 n. 14, skeptomai 6 n. 13, 279, 280 n. 29, 293 skopeō 6 n. 13, 108, 225, 273, 280 n. 29, 317 Socrates 214–16, 316, 321, 326–27, 331, 333–42 Solon 274–8 space 13–15, 23, 88 (poetics of s.), 90, 100 n. 35, 113, 152, 163–83 (interior s.), 207 n. 6, 348, 418–19, 421, 426–28, 430, 433, 436–37, 439–59 (sacred s.), 487 spectacle 3–27, 4 n. 4, 7, 8, 10–12, 15–17, 19, 22–23, 26 n. 95, 27, 69, 80, 89, 113, 119, 188, 205 n. 1, 207–9, 211, 216, 221, 229, 247–52, 255–57, 266–68, 271–72, 277, 281, 346, 350 spectator(s) 10–12, 15–16 (“real” s.), 16 (imaginary s.), 20, 22, 40, 113, 121, 148, 150, 155, 157, 170, 188–89, 195–96, 198, 200, 205 n. 1, 208–9, 211, 221, 229, 245, 247–49, 251–54, 256, 258– 61, 265–67, 271–73, 275, 277 n. 19,

501

279–82, 285–87, 309, 332–33, 341–42, 347, 350–2, 373, 374 n. 43, 377, 396–97 staging 7, 11, 16, 23, 25, 77, 84, 89, 163–83, 188–90, 192–93, 198, 205–7, 209, 211– 12, 216, 220–21, 224, 229, 233–41, 254– 56, 277 star(s) 66 n. 23, 93, 103, 114, 125, 130, 135, 331–33, 337, 342, 343–52 (dance of the s.), 359, 391, 435 statue(s) 108, 176, 188, 256–57, 335, 346, 374, 420, 429–31, 439, 446, 450–52, 454, 456–58, 464, 468–73, 480, 487–89 stilbō 123, 129, 339–40, 348 storytelling 33, 84 n. 76, 266 sun 41, 48, 62, 66 n. 23, 75–76, 91, 99, 106, 108, 110, 125–26, 131, 133, 163, 219, 222–23, 337–39, 341–44, 347, 348 n. 38, 359 synoptic view 3–4, 27 n. 99, 424 taphos 73 tears 37, 63, 70–3, 75, 82–84, 228–29, 254, 303 n. 45 temple(s) 103, 115, 131, 163, 176, 335, 341, 421–22, 424, 442, 444, 446, 456–57 terpsis 15, 73, 253 thambeō 24–25, 93, 116, 119–20 thambos 23–25, 97–98, 116, 120 Thamyris 78 thauma 7 n. 18, 262, 266, 272 (thōmata), 365 n. 17, 390 n. 78 thaumazō 37, 39, 140 n. 2, 194, 224–25, 262, 347, 365, 390 n. 78, 395 thea 277 (theē), 280, 284, 392 theama 248, 342 theaō/theaomai 7 n. 18, 206, 209, 225 n. 55, 248, 274, 277, 280, 311, 314, 320, 365, 399 theatēs 235, 280, 309 n. 11, 341–42, 373, 374 n. 43 theatre 7–8, 10–12, 21, 23, 27, 69–70, 137, 163–83, 187–200, 205 n. 1, 207 n. 6, 213, 216, 221, 229, 233–41, 252–60 theatron 7 n. 18 theōmenoi 221, 280 n. 29 theōria 275, 393 theories of sight 5, 66 n. 23, 216–29, 339 Tiresias 79, 82, 84, 145

502

Subject Index

Troy 7, 12–13, 23, 27 n. 99, 144–45, 148–49, 252–55, 277 n. 19, 386 n. 63 Triton 98–99, 103 Tychios 20 tuphlos 62, 81, 217, 225–27 Underworld 43–44, 54, 79, 82, 163, 220 vase-painting 35, 52–55, 146, 187, 189 n. 8, 190–200, 418–19, 433–35, 466–67, 474–75, 483–86 viewer 53–55, 93 n. 20, 111, 113, 119, 124, 130–31, 135–37, 146, 167–68, 173, 180, 183, 221, 271–87, 335, 339–41, 346, 348, 351 n. 47, 464–89 vision 3–4, 5 n. 12, 7 n. 19, 8, 16, 25, 27, 34– 39, 44, 46, 52–55, 66 n. 23, 70, 73 n. 42, 75–77, 88–89, 94, 96, 101–3, 107, 109– 11, 145, 174, 187 n. 1, 188, 199–202, 205, 208, 209–11, 216–29, 256, 258, 267, 314, 331–52, 357, 375, 396, 399–400, 403 visiones 375

visual arts 55, 147, 188–89, 196, 252, 254, 257, 259, 331–32, 334–35, 357–403 visual memory 34, 187–88, 194–95, 198 visual perception 3, 7, 63, 66 n. 23, 68, 71, 73, 77, 83, 216, 225 n. 55, 345 visuality 88–101, 110–1, 187–200, 233–41, 246–49, 257–59, 261, 267, 271–87, 312, 314, 318–19, 324, 331–52, 357, 376, 392–93, 396–97, 400–1, 423, 427, 433– 34, 446, 451, 452–59 (visual representation), 464–89 visualization 4, 7, 25, 27, 34, 84, 208, 245, 257, 282, 286, 292–94, 303, 350–52, 365, 367, 468 Xerxes 272–78 Zeus 12, 16–17, 35–36, 63, 66, 79 n. 62, 88 n. 2, 93, 97, 102, 104, 106, 122, 214 n. 24, 239, 261, 263, 276 n. 19 zōgraphia 344 n. 5, 357 n. 2, 359, 375, 400 n. 106

Author Index Aeschylus Ag. 154–55 177 Ag. 908–11 168–69 Ag. 958–65 179 Ag. 1186–92 166–67 Ag. 1428 181 Ag. 1468–74 181 Ag. 1497–1504 181–2 Ag. 1580 173 Ag. 1580–81 168 Cho. 10–12 170 Cho. 23–31 170 Cho. 84 171 Cho. 980–84 172 Cho. 985–86 219 n. 36 Cho. 1023–25 174 Cho. 1048–50 167. 173 Eum. 242 176 Eum. 307 175 Pers. 821–22 77 n. 54 PV 91 219 n. 36 Sept. 592 309 n. 9 fr. 169 196 fr. 192.5 219 n. 36 Aëtius 4, 13 219 n. 36 Anaxagoras 59 B12 DK 217 n. 30 59 B21 DK 217 n. 31 Antipater of Sidon AP 6.276 = 51 HE 421 Apollonius Rhodius 1.239–40 114 1.306–10 115 1.547–52 119 1.551 120 n. 36 1.721 120 n. 36 1.768 120 n. 36 1.1229–33 128 3.924 120 3.1044–45 125 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110571288-025

4.68–69 91 4.127–29 91 4.165–73 92 4.184–88 93 4.294–97 96 4.428–30 109 4.437 104 4.458 104 4.465–66 105 4.482–89 105 4.592 106 4.682–84 97 4.753–54 102 4.898–900 101 4.1191–93 122 n. 50 4.1245–49 107–8 4.1264–66 108 4.1427–30 98 4.1541–47 99 4.1618–19 98 Archilochus fr. 13.9–10 W.²

70 n. 32

Aristophanes Ach. 40 235 Ach. 41–42 239 Ach. 111–12 235 Ach. 115 235 Ach. 130–31 235 Ach. 134 235 Ach. 253–62 206 Ach. 418–19 238 Ach. 426–27 238 Ach. 440–44 309 n. 11 Ach. 462–63 236 Ach. 466–69 236 Ach. 475–78 236–37 Ach. 558 235 Ach. 593 235 Ach. 705 239 Av. 137–42 235–35 Av. 166–71 236 n. 8 Eccl. 1–6 222

504

Author Index

Eccl. 254–55 226 Eccl. 398–407 227 Eccl. 725–27 224–25 Eq. 27–29 236 Eq. 128–31 236 Eq. 160–75 207–8 Eq. 188–90 236 Eq. 237 235 Eq. 721 236 Eq. 1346 236 Eq. 1375–77 237 Lys. 155–56 146 Lys. 283 238 n. 14 Lys. 645 449 Nub. 14–16 238 Nub. 25–27 238 Nub. 206–14 208–9 Nub. 211–12 235 Nub. 362–63 215 Nub. 1427 239 Pax 56–59 239 Pax 62–65 239 Plut. 665–66 227 Plut. 713–15 211 Plut. 716–25 227–28 Ran. 542–48 210 Ran. 591–93 213 Ran. 602–4 213 Ran. 814–17 214 Ran. 1474–76 221 Thesm. 5–6 218 Thesm. 7 218 Thesm. 11 218 Thesm. 14–15 218 Thesm. 16–17 219 Thesm. 18 218 n. 35 Vesp. 54–57 235 Vesp. 74–75 235 Vesp. 78–79 235 Vesp. 325–26 239–40 Aristoteles De an. 414b2–5

68 n. 28

Cicero Tusc. 3.12 71 n. 35 Tusc. 5.114 358

Demosthenes Lept. 82 318 n. 37 Dionysius (comic poet) fr. 2.36–38 K.-A. 239 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Comp. 20 358 Diotimus AP 6.358 = 7 HE 424 Empedocles 31 B17.21 DK 217 31 B84 DK 66–67; 222–23 31 B84.9 DK 218 n. 35 31 B86 DK 218 31 B87 DK 218 31 B95 DK 218 Epicharmus fr. 214 PCG 217 Eupolis fr. 302 PCG

209

Euripides Andr. 628–31 147 n. 24 Bacch. 977–80 197 Bacch. 1063–75 194–95 Bacch. 1290–91 197 Cyc. 675–90 69–70 El. 467 346 Hec. 557–70 149–50 Or. 53–60 148 Or. 233–36 309 n. 10 Tro. 1039–41 148 fr. 19 TrGF 221 n. 42 fr. 593 N. 347 n. 34 fr. 776 TrGF 226 n. 62 Eustathius ad Il. 18.607

368 n. 24

Gorgias 82 B11.9 DK

303 n. 45

Hermogenes Prog. 10.48 373

Author Index

Herodotus: 1.8 273 1.8.3 151 n. 37 1.9 274 1.29 275 1.30 274 n. 12; 275 8.88 273 8.90 272 Hesiod Op. 159–60 121 n. 41 [Sc.] 218 365 n. 17 Theog. 142–5 63 Theog. 450–51 219 n. 36 Theog. 755 219 n. 36 Theog. 759–60 219 n. 36 Hippocrates and Corpus Hippocraticum Carn. 17 224 Hipponax fr. 36 W.² 226 n. 60 Homer Il. 1.88 6 n. 16 Il. 1.225 9 Il. 1.231 9 Il. 1.148–49 8 Il. 1.194 9 Il. 1.220 9 Il. 1.233–39 10 Il. 1.245 10 Il. 2.594b-600 78 Il. 3.154–60 140 Il. 3.245 12 Il. 3.252 12 Il. 3.256 12 Il. 3.269 12 Il. 3.277 219 n. 36 Il. 3.286 12 Il. 3.288–89 12 Il. 3.290 12 Il. 3.302 12 n. 43 Il. 3.306–7 12 n. 44 Il. 3.413–20 141–42 Il. 3.441 36 n. 11 Il. 3.446 36 n. 11 Il. 5.10 3 n. 2

Il. 5.297–307 19 Il. 6.468 4 n. 6 Il. 7.58–62 15 Il. 8.69–72 17 Il. 9.14–15 70 Il. 11.61–62 114 Il. 12.443–66 14 Il. 13.340–41 79 n. 60 Il. 14.293b-96 35 Il. 14.294 36 n. 11 Il. 14.314 36 n. 11 Il. 14.315 36 n. 11 Il. 14.328 36 n. 11 Il. 14.436 6 n. 16 Il. 14.499 5 n. 9 Il. 15.697–98 16 Il. 16.140 21 n. 74 Il. 16.692–94 18 Il. 16.741 5 n. 9 Il. 16.842–43 18 Il. 16.856–57 18 n. 63 Il. 18.61 = 442 3 n. 2 Il. 18.466–67 365 Il. 18.478–608 410–16 Il. 18.573–76 395 Il. 19.387–91 21 n. 74 Il. 20.205 4 n. 6 Il. 21.69–70 21 n. 77 Il. 21.167–68 21 n. 77 Il. 21.325 378 n. 59 Il. 22.79–89 156 Il. 22.93–95 100 Il. 22.199–201 26 Il. 22.212 17 Il. 22.356 6 n. 17 Il. 22.362–63 18 n. 63 Il. 22.369–74 93–94 Il. 23.448–49 22 Il. 24.477–84 24 Il. 24.558 3 n. 2 Il. 24.632 4 n. 6 Od. 1.6–9 75 Od. 1.340–42 73 Od. 3.233 38 Od. 4.153 83 n. 74 Od. 4.475 38 Od. 5.41 38 Od. 5.73–74 37

505

506

Author Index

Od. 5.75 37 Od. 5.114 38 Od. 5.153 36 Od. 5.156–58 37 Od. 5.209–10 36 Od. 5.217 36 Od. 5.220 38 Od. 6.16 36 Od. 6.158 36 Od. 6.237 129 Od. 6.242–43 127 n. 74 Od. 6.311 38 Od. 7.133–34 37 Od. 7.224–25 38 Od. 8.62–70 78–80 Od. 8.83–85 82 Od. 8.86 83 Od. 8.107–8 80 Od. 8.195 79 n. 61 Od. 8.261–62 80 Od. 8.265 37 Od. 8.384 37 Od. 8.410 38 Od. 8.466 38 Od. 8.521–22 83 Od. 8.531 83 Od. 9.27–28 38 Od. 9.382–97 64–65 Od. 9.411 66 Od. 9.415–18 68 Od. 9.452–54 46 Od. 9.525 66 Od. 9.532 38 Od. 10.29–30 38 Od. 10.492–95 79 Od. 11.15–16 219 n. 36 Od. 11.93–94 82 Od. 11.103 82 Od. 11.161–62 38 Od. 11.336 309 n. 13 Od. 11.362–76 84–85 Od. 11.373 83 Od. 11.605–8 43 Od. 12.118–20 46 Od. 12.230–33 47 Od. 12.251–55 47 Od. 12.256–57 47 Od. 12.258–59 47

Od. 12.370–73 75–76 Od. 12.394–96 76–77 Od. 13.293–99 33 Od. 15.25 309 n. 13 Od. 15.392 83 Od. 16.219 83 n. 74 Od. 16.439 6 n. 16 Od. 18.337–39 41 Od. 18.343–45 41 Od. 19.204–12 71–72 Od. 19.228–31 39 Od. 19.446 6 n. 16; 223 n. 46 Od. 19.476–79 72 Od. 20.345–49 74–75 Od. 21.397 44 Od. 21.405 44 Od. 21.421–23 44 Od. 22.15–16 44 Od. 22.24 45 Od. 22.42–43 45 Od. 22.320–30 42–43 Od. 22.377 45 Od. 22.379–80 45 Od. 22.381–82 45 Od. 22.383–89 48 Od. 23.88–95 72–73 Od. 24.178–79 44 Homeric Hymn to Apollo 165–75 81–82 201–3 348 Homeric Hymn to Demeter 70 219 n. 36 Homeric Hymn to Hermes 360 40 Ibycus fr. S151.5 PMGF Iliu Persis arg. 2 GEF

145 n. 15

147 n. 23

Isocrates Hel. 35 262 Hel. 56–57 264 Hel. 64 143

Author Index

Leonidas of Tarentum AP 6.286 = 40 HE 423

Imag. Praef 7 371 n. 36 Imag. 10 377–400 passim Imag. 10.17 395 Imag. 10.19 399

[Longinus] Subl. 9.13 84 n. 76 Lucian Hist. conscr. 51 Imag. 8 358

Pindar Pai. fr. 52h.18–20 Maehler

Menander Dys. 558–59 239 Georg. 63 236 n. 9 fr. 351.3 239 Nicolaus Prog. (Felten 1913, 69)

374 n. 47

Nicophon (comic poet) fr. 1 K.-A. 239 Orphic Argonautica 803–5 114 n. 9 Parmenides 28 A48 DK 219 n. 36 28 B4.1 DK 217 Perses AP 6.272 = 2 HE 422 Pherecrates fr. 155.19–21 K.-A. Philolaus 44 A16 DK

218 n. 32

303 n. 46

236

347 n. 35

Philostratus the Elder Imag. Praef. 4–5 369 n. 26 Imag. 1.5.2 387 n. 66 Imag. 2.27.2 387 n. 66 Philostratus the Younger Imag. Praef. 1 372 Imag. Praef. 2 369 Imag. Praef. 4 376 Imag. Praef. 5 386 n. 64 Imag. Praef. 6 376; 399 n. 104

Plato Grg. 537b5 327 n. 71 Menex. 235c 251 Phaedr. 243a 143 Phd. 81b 336 Phd. 100c-d 336 n. 7 Phd. 109b 338 Phd. 109b-c 337 Phd. 110a 338 Phd. 110b 340 Phd. 110b-c 340 n. 17 Phd. 110d-11b 341 n. 18 Phd. 111b-c 342 n. 19 Phlb. 51c-d 334 n. 5 Plt. 310d 77 n. 54 Resp. 361b5–7 327 n. 71 Resp. 365b4–8 327 Resp. 508b 219 n. 36 Symp. 221b 215 Ti. 30d 344 Ti. 39d 347 Ti. 40a 345 n. 30 Ti. 40c 347 n. 36 Ti. 47b1–5 68 n. 28 Ti. 47b-c 349 n. 42 Ti. 68a 348 Ti. 89a 343 n. 21 Ti. 90c-d 349 n. 41 Plutarch De glor. Ath. 346f 357 n. 2 De glor. Ath. 347a 285; 373 n. 43 [Plutarch] Vit. Hom. 216 358–59 Vit. Hom. 217 360–65 Polyzelus (comic poet) fr. 12 K.-A. 237–38

507

508

Author Index

Posidippus no. 36 Col VI 10–17

451

Procopius Pers. 1.1.1 290 n. 4; 302 n. 41 Pers. 1.3.8 292 n. 12 Pers. 1.3.9 292 n. 13 Pers. 1.3.10 292 n. 14 Pers. 1.3.13 293 Pers. 1.3.14 294 n. 17 Pers. 1.4.33 294 n. 20 Pers. 1.9.1 295 n. 22 Pers. 1.9.2 295 n. 23 Pers. 1.9.3 296 n. 24 Pers. 1.9.6 297 n. 28 Pers. 1.9.15 297 Pers. 1.9.20 296 n. 26 Pers. 2.19.8 300 n. 38 Pers. 2.19.19 298 n. 30 Pers. 2.19.20 298 Pers. 2.19.43 299 n. 32 Pers. 2.25.11–12 299 Pers. 2.25.13–14 300 Pers. 2.25.16 300 n. 37

El. 685 114 n. 8 OC 869 219 n. 36 Phil. 110 221 n. 42 fr. 710 TrGF 225 Sophron fr. 4a.10–14 PCG

206

Stesichoros fr. 17 F. 155–56 fr. 90.1–15 F. 144 fr. 91a F. 143 fr. 91c F. 143 fr. 106 F. 146 fr. 112.5–6 F. 155 n. 49 fr. 122.8–9 F. 155 n. 49 fr. 113 F. 154–55 fr. 115 F. 152 Theon Prog. 118.7

373

Scholia Eur. Or. 1287 146 Hom. Il. 3.155b 140 n. 2 Hom. Il. 6.467 358 n. 5 Hom. Il. 16.107–11 400 n. 106 Hom. Il. 18.561–62 368 n. 24 Hom. Il. 21.325a 378 n. 59

Thucydides 1.1 302 n. 42 3.38.4 280 3.104.5 81–82 4.34.1 282 4.34.2 282 4.126.6 279 5.6.3 279–80 5.7.3 280 6.31.1 281 7.44.1 283 7.44.2 283 7.71.2–3 284–85

Simonides fr. 190b Bergk

Timocreon of Rhodes PMG 731 226 n. 61

Quintilian Inst. 8.4.21

140–1

357 n. 2

Solon fr. 4.35 W.² 77 n. 54

Triphiodorus 493–4 154–55

Sophocles Aj. 51–52 77 Aj. 59 77 Aj. 69–70 77 Aj. 121–23 77 El. 66 114 n. 8

Xenophon Cyr. 1.2.16 323 Cyr. 1.3.15 318 Cyr. 1.6.21–22 310; 325 Cyr. 1.6.24 321–22 Cyr. 1.6.35–36 323

Author Index

Cyr. 2.4.5 324 Cyr. 3.1.41 320 Cyr. 3.2.15 324 Cyr. 4.2.9–10 314 Cyr. 4.2.38 322 Cyr. 5.1.7 320 Cyr. 5.1.8 320 Cyr. 5.1.24–25 315 Cyr. 5.1.28–29 312 Cyr. 5.2.11 318 Cyr. 5.2.17 323 Cyr. 5.3.9 316 Cyr. 5.4.11 320 Cyr. 5.4.18 322 Cyr. 5.5.27–28 313–14

Cyr. 7.1.41–42 315 Cyr. 7.5.55 322 Cyr. 7.5.56 312–13 Cyr. 7.5.71 313 Cyr. 8.1.21 321 Cyr. 8.1.22 322 Cyr. 8.1.30 321 Cyr. 8.1.40–42 316 Cyr. 8.2.1 322–23 Eq. Mag. 5.2 316 Mem. 1.7.2–3 326 Mem. 2.1.22 317 Mem. 2.6.39 326 Symp. 5.5 215

509